


Sherlock the Demon Hunter

by LadyRa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in Massachusetts with John who is attending a conference.  Sherlock finds Dean Winchester digging a grave, and the game is on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Sherlock Discovers Something the Complete Opposite of Boring

**Author's Note:**

> This has left gen territory, and has moved into pre-slash, Sherlock/John, Dean/Castiel  
> Notes about timing: This goes AU after Death “fixes” Sam, but in this version, he really does fix Sam. Sam has gone off to find himself, and Dean has been left to hunt on his own. None of that crazy heaven stuff is going on, so Castiel is just being the new sheriff. For Sherlock, it’s after the first 3 episodes.

Sherlock the Demon Hunter

Chapter 1

Sherlock was bored. Not as bored as he’d be if he’d given in to John’s whingeing and gone to the end reception of the forensics conference John was attending. Trying to be polite to hundreds of terminally dull people was beyond his capability. And whilst being impolite to those same hundreds would have been vastly more entertaining, John would sulk.

It bothered Sherlock that he was altering his behavior for John, but there it was. He kept trying not to do it, and then, there he’d be, taking John into account. It was one of the mysteries about the man that Sherlock had yet to unravel.

The hotel room had quickly lost its charm, and the inhabitants of the hotel bar were too vapid for words. It was probably a good thing John had insisted on leaving his gun in England, or Sherlock might be shooting up the lobby for entertainment.

He stood out on the curb in Lexington, Massachusetts, the city they’d been staying in for the last five days. John had mentioned something about its historical significance, but Sherlock had deleted it immediately.

Up until now, Sherlock had entertained himself by sneaking into many of the lectures of the conference and silently, for the most part, mocking the speakers. No wonder Anderson was such a git, if this was the best the world had to offer. Come evening, John had kept him company. Tonight was the first night Sherlock had been left to his own devices.

What Sherlock needed was a good juicy murder. In a world of Sherlock’s making, one of those boring professors, preferably one of whom John wasn’t particularly fond, would be found in his locked hotel room with his ring fingers cut off and gone missing, and some obscure mark sliced into his forehead.

John would not approve of Sherlock’s thoughts.

It was not as if Sherlock had any intention of committing the crime, but he did love to fantasize about it. Sometimes he wished he was a touch more psychotic versus sociopathic. He’d have been such an elegant serial killer. They’d have written books about him.

His phone chirped at him.

“Reception done. Off to bar. Sure you don’t want to come?” JW

“Boring.” Sherlock texted back.

“Try 2 stay out of trouble,” was the response.

Sherlock snorted, and glanced at his watch: just before midnight. With this being the last night, John had decided to go drinking with some of his mates. Sherlock frowned. He didn’t like sharing John. Another mystery.

A light in the distance caught his attention. Just a flash and it was gone. He saw it again. Curious, Sherlock moved silently in its direction. He didn’t see the flash of light again, but he had an unerring sense of direction and quietly made his way through some trees, over a fence, until he found himself in a cemetery.

Intrigued now, although he was half afraid he’d simply find two young lovers in the midst of a tryst, his eyes sought out a glimpse of the light. Instead, he heard a steady set of noises. Sherlock couldn’t immediately identify them. He stopped to listen intently. It took a minute for the sounds to mesh into something that made sense, and the thump, slide, thump, slide, thump noises eventually formed themselves into a picture of someone digging.

Someone digging in the middle of the night in a cemetery? How delightful. Sherlock continued his quiet walk toward the noise, passing tombstones on his right and left, his eyes unable to read much of the marble text in the limited light of the crescent moon.

He crouched behind a large stone when his quarry was before him. It was difficult to determine the man’s age from this distance, but there was no doubt he was digging up a grave. His rapid movements and economy of motion spoke of long experience in the process.

Sherlock was being eaten alive by his curiosity, so he stood up and strode over to the man. “Are you an actual grave robber?” This was brilliant. Sherlock had never had an opportunity to speak to a grave robber.

The man barely startled, something that impressed Sherlock. He found himself being assessed in a fashion similar to that which Sherlock engaged when meeting someone new. The man’s eyes flicked over him, assessed him, and then he had the temerity to roll his eyes and go back to his digging.

Sherlock frowned. He could only assume that the man’s assessment of him had determined him harmless. He let that insult go in order to move back to the topic at hand. “If you are not robbing this grave, why are you digging it up?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Many delicious choices ran through Sherlock’s brain. Necromancy, necrophilia, revenge. Hopefully nothing as plebian as a practical joke. “Is it a family member?”

The man snorted. “Yeah, my old granny.”

Sherlock took that for the sarcastic lie it was and moved closer to get a good look at the tombstone. It read:

Here lies Iphiginia Cloud  
Beloved daughter, beloved wife, beloved mother  
1821-1849

It dawned on Sherlock that he might be able to see the bones of a 160 year old corpse. He’d seen old skeletons, of course, but not in situ. Very exciting. “Need some help?”

The man sent him a look of incredulity, but then it quickly turned into a shrug, and a chin point to a second shovel. “Help yourself.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock shed his coat, counting on the exertion to keep him warm, and picked up the other shovel. He watched for a few moments, getting the rhythm of the other man’s efforts, before digging in, in counterpoint.

It took more exertion than Sherlock expected, his respect for grave diggers rising. “Do this a lot?”

“Often enough.”

“Does it pay well?”

A derisive laugh. And no answer.

“May I inquire as to your name?” Sherlock broached.

“Dean.”

“Pleased to meet you Dean, I’m Sherlock.”

He got an amused look this time. “Did you get beat up all the time when you were a kid?”

“The potential was there, but I discouraged that sort of thing.”

“How?”

“Black belt in Jujitsu. Plus a remarkable aptitude for the art of revenge.”

Dean snickered. “Where’re you from?”

“London. You? Are you from this area?”

“No. Don’t really have a home. Except her,” he added, jerking his head to indicate behind him where a long black car was parked.

“Remarkable.” Sherlock had spent some dodgy nights sleeping in less reputable areas of town when he’d been at the worst of his drug days, but he’d always had a roof over his head. “Do you like it? Not having a home?”

Dean focused on his digging and didn’t say a word.

Sherlock considered pushing, then decided being hit on the head with a shovel would hurt, and applied himself as well.

Between the two of them, they made good progress, and it was Sherlock’s shovel that hit the roof of the casket first. “Now what?” he asked.

“Clean the dirt off; I need to get it open.” Dean pulled himself out of the grave, and Sherlock could hear him rummage around. He looked up and saw Dean standing at the edge of the grave looking around attentively, in a way that clearly communicated the expectation of trouble.

“Someone coming?”

“Not yet, but she will.”

“She?”

“The bitch who’s buried here.”

That seemed oddly harsh for a twenty-eight year old who’d been buried over a century ago. “Do you have a reason to hate her?”

“She’s been killing people.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. He hadn’t considered up to this point that Dean might be a nutter. “Who, exactly?”

“Is the dirt all cleared off?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Smash open the lid.”

Sherlock could hardly stop now, so he did as told, and slammed the tip of the shovel into the wood. It easily splintered under the assault. It was the work of only a few moments to clear the wood away, revealing the skeleton buried within, wrapped in scraps of clothes that disintegrated at his touch. Sherlock crouched down to study her. He gently touched her hand, noting that she’d already started to develop arthritis. She was smaller than an average woman would be today, but that didn’t tell Sherlock much. She might just have been a small woman.

“Get out,” Dean directed him.

“I haven’t finished studying her.”

“You’ll be meeting her in a minute if you don’t get out of there so I can burn her bones.”

“What?” Sherlock burst out. “You can’t be serious. These bones should be studied.” He could study the rate of decay; do some carbon dating of his own, make deductions of her nutritional status based on bone composition.

Dean held up a can of gasoline. “I’m pouring in about five seconds, whether you’re in or out.”

Frustrated, Sherlock turned his body enough to hide from Dean the fact that he was taking the right proximal metacarpal that had been severed from the rest of the hand, probably due to the impact of the shovel. Surely his labors had been worth the price of a single bone. He quickly stood and accepted help from Dean to scramble out of the grave, slipping the bone into his pocket.

Rather than the gasoline, Dean sprinkled a white powder over the bones. Coarse and granular.

“Salt?” Sherlock inquired.

“Salt.”

“You’re salting and burning the bones?” Sherlock was intrigued. “They used to salt the earth of an enemy’s land to cause it to turn fallow.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said. “Whatever.” He doused the skeleton with gasoline. “I just don’t want her to kill anyone else.”

“How does she kill people? She’s dead.” Sherlock said the last bit cautiously, just in case it jarred too unpleasantly with Dean’s current view of the world.

“Not completely.” The match dropped and the corpse burst into flame. “Adios, bitch,” Dean said. His shoulders had relaxed a bit, and there was a pleased look of satisfaction on his face.

Sherlock had started to cool after he’d stopped the shoveling, so he was grateful for the warmth coming from the grave. The gasoline burnt quickly, and the flames died down to a steady but low fire as the corpse continued to burn. He fingered the bone in his pocket. Shame, really. He’d have liked to study the entire corpse at length. It would have been something he and John could have done together, although John would no doubt have been squeamish about the grave robbing part.

A wind blew up from nowhere and Sherlock felt a prickle of primal dread crawl down his spine. He turned, fully anticipating finding some large, rabid, wild animal, intent on a kill, or armed thugs wanting whatever treasure they’d discovered.

There was nothing there.

“What the fuck?” Dean said. He glanced into the grave, then at the tombstone. “I know it was her.”

The wind whipped around them both this time, pushing Sherlock dangerously near the edge of the grave. Dean, in an astonishing and gratifyingly quick move, managed to get to Sherlock’s side and grab his arm, pulling him away from danger.

Sherlock spun around, trying to identify the source of the danger, because there certainly was danger; he’d been near it often enough to know what it felt like. His heart was racing, and he was having the time of his life. He thought about asking Dean what he should be on the lookout for, but it was much more fun to figure it out on his own.

John would not approve and would, no doubt, yell at him about this later. Sherlock grinned. Something to look forward to.

He was suddenly picked up like a rag doll by some unseen force and slammed into the nearest tree. Through the pain and momentary immobility, he could feel, honestly feel, a malevolent force. He managed to land on his feet, ignoring the throbbing ache in his back that would certainly be black and blue in the morning. Sherlock saw Dean holding a metal rod in front of him as something amorphous moved in his direction.

It slowly took on the shape of a woman, though her face was distorted by rage. The edges of her body shorted in and out, similar to a light bulb trying to blow or a stop motion film. Her teeth were sharp, like shark’s teeth; her hair was long and stringy as if not brushed after a restless night.

Sherlock took a step toward Dean, trying to understand what he was seeing. Had he hit his head hard enough to cause a hallucination? Dean let out an, “Eat this, bitch,” and began to swing the metal rod. She put her hand up and sent him flying much as she had Sherlock. He smacked into the marble wall of a mausoleum but, rather than fall to the ground, he hung on the wall, as if glued to the surface.

From one instant to the next, the creature was in front of Dean and he was groaning in pain. Sherlock couldn’t see what she was doing so he moved closer. “Tell me what to do,” he demanded. He tried to shove her away but ran right through her, staggering as he came out the other side.

That was when he saw that her hand was in Dean’s chest. But that couldn’t be right, because Dean was still alive.

Dean groaned. “Get the thing,” he gasped out.

The thing? “The thing?” Sherlock snapped out. “Some clarity would not go amiss at this particular point.” What was she?

“The crow bar,” Dean bit out through gritted teeth. He let out an anguished cry.

There was blood on his chest, but not as much as there would be if an actual woman had an actual fist in his chest. Sherlock was captivated. Crow bar, he thought to himself, half glancing at the ground, half unable to stop staring at this new phenomena. Ah. “This?” He held up the crow bar.

“Are you fucking retarded?” Dean yelled. “Hit her with it.”

“Anywhere?”

“Yes, goddamn it! Now!”

Sherlock swung it right through her middle as hard as he could, and Dean’s arm unfortunately took much of the blow, even if her body seemed to entirely dissipate. Sherlock glanced at the crow bar in astonishment. “Why did that work?”

“Iron,” was all Dean said, as he slithered to the floor, his hand over his chest. “What took you so fucking long?”

Iron. Remarkable. This was all so different from anything Sherlock had ever experienced. In the last year, Sherlock could count on one hand, actually, on one finger, the things in his life that were truly different, and that was John. Well, and Moriarty, Sherlock had to concede, but he was dead, and he’d hurt John, so Sherlock hated to grant him the accolade of ‘different’.

“Watch out!” Dean told him, and Sherlock spun, swinging the crow bar through the creature, watching as, again, she vanished like a wisp of smoke.

“I think you broke my fucking arm,” Dean complained.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t hit you that hard.” However, he took out his phone and texted John. “I need you in the cemetery across the street from the hotel. Come immediately.”

He scanned the area for the return of the creature, but all was still. His phone chirped. John’s response was short. “No.”

“Someone’s hurt. My fault.” Sherlock texted back.

“If you’ve dug up a grave, I will hurt you,” was John’s response.

Sherlock smiled and slid his phone back in his pocket. “My friend will be here soon. He’s a doctor.” He moved over to Dean and crouched down. “Are you badly hurt? What was she doing to you?”

“Trying to rip out my heart.”

“Your heart?” That was ridiculous. “Her hand was in your chest. If she was after your heart, she would have succeeded.”

“Right, because you’re such an expert on fighting angry spirits,” Dean said sarcastically.

“Sherlock?” came a distant holler from John.

“Over here,” Sherlock called back. He held up his phone and turned it on. “Do you see my phone?”

He could hear John mutter, and it made Sherlock smirk. He turned his attention back to Dean. “Explain this all to me.”

Dean just grunted as he tried to sit up.

“Sherlock, you did dig up a grave!” John yelled. “Christ. Is nothing sacred to you?”

“Your patient is over here,” Sherlock told him, ignoring his question.

John strode over to Sherlock and looked down at Dean. “Hello. You look dreadful.”

Dean snorted out a half-laugh. “Thanks. You really a doctor?”

John nodded, crouching down. “What are we dealing with here?” He reached for Dean’s arm. “Your arm’s bleeding.”

“Your idiot friend did that to me.”

“Why on earth did you hurt his arm?” John asked Sherlock, looking up at him in exasperation.

“It was an accident. I was aiming for the creature that had her fist in his chest.”

John blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Angry spirit, apparently,” Sherlock said with glee, rocking onto his toes and back down. “John, it was brilliant. It threw me against that tree, and tossed Dean against this wall.”

“An angry spirit.”

“Yes, John.”

“How did you make a spirit angry? I don’t suppose it was because you dug up her grave?”

John’s statement didn’t seem to profess any doubt that there could actually be an angry spirit, but more his belief that whatever had happened, had been Sherlock’s fault. Sherlock said indignantly, “I had nothing to do with it. I was merely assisting Dean.”

“Who just happened to be digging up a grave?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said.

“And why were you digging up a grave?” John asked Dean in his best army-officer voice. “And let me see your chest. You’re bleeding there, too. In fact, take off your shirt.” He opened the small kit he had with him, something he was never without whenever he was on the move with Sherlock. Sherlock had been glad of it multiple times, even if John did have a tendency to fuss.

“Salt and burn,” Dean said, struggling to get off his shirt. John assisted him, gently pulling the sleeve of his Henley off over his sore arm. “She might come back.”

“How can she if you salted and burned her bones?”

“I don’t know,” Dean snapped out. “It was her. And she was supposed to be buried there. Maybe they buried the body in the wrong grave. Maybe the tombstones got switched.”

John put his hand on Dean’s chest to check out his wound. Sherlock frowned. Did Dean have to be so naked for this? He hovered behind John, supervising.

“Sherlock, do you have to stand so close?”

“There are angry spirits around,” Sherlock said, thinking that sounded quite plausible.

“So you both say,” John said. “Your arm needs stitches. We’ll probably get by with steri-strips for your chest. We’ll put some on your arm for the time being; it will make the stitching easier.” Putting words to action, he began to place steri-strips on the gash on Dean’s arm to hold the skin together.

“Why, exactly,” Sherlock said, putting his mind back on business, “are you not calling me a liar about the angry spirit?”

“You’re not one for pranks like this,” John said, pointing at the cemetery, and Dean’s wounds. “Digging up a body for the sake of experimentation, absolutely, but then lying about it and talking about supernatural sightings? Not really your thing.”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “Not really. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m in my right mind.”

“Do you want me to call you a liar?” John asked with a small grin. “This is an unusual wound.” He was taking a closer look at the circular wound on Dean’s chest.

“She had her fist in his chest,” Sherlock pointed out, somewhat put out that John was taking this all so well.

“Not a corporeal hand, though.”

“Obviously, but how do you know about these things?” Sherlock demanded, crouching down now to get a good look at John.

“There isn’t a square meter of land in Afghanistan where blood hasn’t been spilled a hundred fold. It’s filled with angry spirits, Sherlock. I sat vigil over enough dead bodies to see that.”

“Not everyone sees them,” Dean said.

John shrugged.

The wind started to pick up again, and Sherlock glanced quickly around. “Can you see her?” he asked, grabbing for the crow bar.

Dean and John both twisted in the direction Sherlock was looking. “Fuck,” Dean said.

“Crap,” John said.

In seconds she was on Sherlock, before he had time to raise the bar to swing at her. The way she moved was unearthly, and Sherlock was not prepared for it. Her hands, her fingers more claws than fingernails, swiped at his face. He reared back and she wrenched the bar from his grasp, throwing it to the side. The spirit hissed at him, her teeth snapping. He felt a searing pain on one cheek as her claws made contact this time.

A part of him understood he was in deathly danger, but he couldn’t help but stare at her, trying to deduce what she was, what she’d been, how she could possibly exist.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, “Get down.”

Sherlock had enough faith in John to do as instructed. As he ducked there was a loud blast. He looked up to see John holding a shotgun that he ratcheted like it was all a part of his normal day, and then he shot again. The spirit screamed in fury at John but then vanished.

John, once again, had surprised him. Deeply. “John,” was all he could get out.

“Are you sure it was her?” John asked Dean.

“Yes,” Dean said, struggling to get to his feet, letting out a brief groan as he struggled to put his shirt on. Once that was accomplished, he rummaged through his bag and brought out another shotgun which he loaded, handing John two shells that he quickly inserted into the mechanism.

Watching John handle the shotgun was doing funny things to Sherlock’s insides.

“Either I completely fucked up my research, or there must have been something of hers I didn’t burn.”

John glanced around, then his eyes widened. “Sherlock, tell me you didn’t.”

Damn it. “Didn’t what?”

John put his hand out.

Sherlock put his hands behind his back. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“She’ll keep coming back, and we can’t keep watch indefinitely. How many people has she already killed?” John asked Dean.

“Twenty eight. She kills three people every ten years. She’d only gotten to one this year so far.”

“She could be out killing someone right now,” John said to Sherlock, hand out.

“It’s just one small bone,” he protested. “How could it possibly make a difference?”

“It doesn’t matter how,” John said. “All that matters is that she needs to be stopped.”

Sherlock frowned, glared at John, saw that he was entirely unmoved, sighed loudly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the metacarpal, slapping it on John’s palm. “Happy?”

“Delirious,” John said, handing it to Dean.

Dean shot Sherlock a look that might have shaken a stronger man than Sherlock. Moving over to the grave, Dean dropped the bone in, covering the remains with another generous squirt of gasoline which made the hole in the ground brighten enough to make Sherlock shield his eyes. When it died down enough for Sherlock to drop his hand, he saw the apparition bearing down on them, but then she went up in a fiery shriek and was gone.

“I need explanations,” Sherlock demanded. “What is this all about? How do the two of you know what to do?” It was unthinkable that he was the weakest link here. He hadn’t been in that position for years.

“First I need to attend to your grave-digger friend, and then to your cheek,” John said in his don’t-cross-me voice. “John Watson, by the way.”

“Dean Winchester. You really a doctor?”

John nodded. “Was an army doctor for years.”

“Handy. Why do you hang out with this loser?” His chin pointed toward Sherlock.

“Oh, he’s not a loser,” John said with a grin. “Most dangerous man in London. Genius.”

“Idiot,” Dean corrected.

“I’ve been known to call him that once or twice.”

Sherlock frowned at them. John was supposed to be on his side. “This was all new to me, you know,” he said haughtily, “and I did dispel the spirit at least once, if not twice.”

“And took your fucking time to do it,” Dean said hotly. “She almost killed me while you stood there and stared.”

That was, unfortunately, true. “You’re right,” Sherlock admitted. “I must admit that the entire affair was so fascinating that I got caught up in my deductions at a time that begged more for a man of action. I shall amend my behavior moving forward. But you, John,” he said, beaming, “you were magnificent. A true man of action. I am quite impressed.”

“What do you mean, moving forward?” Dean asked suspiciously.

“We don’t have a car,” John said to Dean, “but we could get a taxi to take you to hospital.”

“No, no hospitals,” Dean argued. “I’ll be fine.”

“You need stitches.”

“I can do it.”

“You can sew your own stitches?” John asked, eyebrows up.

“Won’t be the first time.”

“Well, it won’t be this time,” John stated firmly. “I’ll need to get some suturing supplies.”

“I’ve got some back at my hotel,” Dean said.

“Well, come on then.” John helped Dean get to his feet, but then said, “Wait. Don’t we need to fill in the grave?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t usually do it. Not like you can make it look like you didn’t dig it up.”

“It’s more of a respect thing,” John said.

“You sound like my brother,” Dean said, reaching down for a shovel.

“Not with that arm,” John told him. “Come on, Sherlock.”

“What? Me?”

Dean sniggered.

Sherlock shot him a narrow-eyed glare and picked up a shovel. John grabbed the other one. They had it filled back in shortly, and then John helped Dean pack up his weapons. Sherlock still had hold of the crow bar and kept scanning the cemetery.

“She won’t come back,” Dean told him with a smirk.

“Another one might, though,” Sherlock said.

“Nah, you don’t usually run into two different angry spirits in one night.”

“How many angry spirits have you taken care of?”

“Too many to count.”

Sherlock let this percolate as he followed John and Dean down toward the street until they reached the big black car.

“This is my baby,” Dean said proudly.

Sherlock spared it a quick and dismissive glance. He opened the back door and slid inside.

“I was sure he’d claim shotgun,” Dean told John.

“Why would I claim the shotgun? It was obvious John knew what he was doing.”

“Is he a retard or something?” Dean asked John.

John shot amused eyes at Sherlock, but said, “No, he really is a genius. There are just some things he hasn’t bothered to learn.”

“Like how to talk like a normal person?”

“Boring,” Sherlock said from the back seat. There was a thick brown journal on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up. He opened it carefully so as not to scatter all the loose papers within. Once open, he flipped through it quickly, wanting to get a sense of it and, a few seconds later, he was lost in a world beyond his understanding. Women in white, wendigos, werewolves, spirits, demons, vampires.

He was barely conscious of a conversation going on between Dean and John.

“I’d offer to drive, mate, but I haven’t driven a car in years, and I don’t even have a license anymore, plus I’ve never driven on the right…”

“Shut the fuck up and get in on the other side. This is where I sit. I wasn’t asking you to drive.”

“Oh.” There were sounds of car doors opening and closing.

Then Dean said, “Hey, what are you doing?” His head was over the front seat glaring at him.

Sherlock put a hand up. “Be quiet.” He turned the next page, going through it slower this time.

“That’s mine.” Dean made a grab for it.

Sherlock moved it out of his reach. “You’re distracting me, stop it.”

“Just drive, Dean,” John said. “Your arm is bleeding.”

“Damn it.” An angry twist of a key in the ignition, then the car was moving.

Sherlock went back to the beginning. As he read more carefully, there was a litany of deduction going on in the back of his mind. Journal is about thirty years old, bought for something different, perhaps a scrap book as the first three pages are torn out, and there’s some glue residue on the inside cover, along with a few specks of glitter. The first handwriting is an adult, grieving, his wife killed by something supernatural.

Sherlock got caught up for a few minutes reading about Wendigos. Then he began to skip pages, trying to get a sense of a timeline: There were other entries, written by different people. Younger, and then younger still. Two of them. If it was Dean’s book now, this writing was his, and this was him when he was younger. And this writing was his while quite small. Hunting most of his life then.

The pages were worn through in some spots by what Sherlock suspected were actual blood, sweat and tears. Phrases jumped out at him: dead man’s blood, Christo, exorcisms, silver bullets, beheadings. And then there were pictures of runes, of pentagrams to contain, and later in the book, sigils to banish.

There was mention of a Sam. Brother, younger. Following the dates, he was gone for four years then started hunting again. Dean had possession of the book by then and was the principal historian, with occasional snippets from Sam. Then, Dean was gone, and Sam…

Sherlock read a few pages of Sam’s writings, ramblings, really, almost a document of someone going mad. Then Dean was back, his tone different, darker. Drunk, often. Angry. Talk of angels and devils, Lucifer, souls and torture. Has he gone mad? Sherlock wondered to himself. If you had hunted evil for most of your life, how could you not go mad? For a moment he wondered if he, himself, had gone mad. Angry spirits? Could such a thing be real?

The car pulled into a shabby, nondescript hotel, and was shut off. “Come on,” John said to Dean. Then, “Sherlock.”

Tucking the book under his arm, knowing he had only done the shallowest of examinations, he opened the door.

“Give it back,” Dean said.

“I’m not finished with it,” Sherlock said. “I won’t do it any harm. Are there more books like this?”

Dean glared and then glanced at John, as if he might be the voice of reason. Which he would be, Sherlock knew, by insisting Dean go inside so he could attend to him. “Your book will be fine,” John said reliably. “I want to get you stitched up, or I’ll have to insist we go to hospital.”

Dean growled, but directed John to a door with a number 11 on it. Sherlock mused at John’s misleading appearance and personality, making one assume that he would be the one to submit. Instead, he was an intractable force that one succumbed to without being sure what had happened.

Sherlock was finding himself eating on a regular basis, as well as taking cat naps in the middle of cases. Unheard of.

“Go take a shower,” John said. “It’s the best way to clean those wounds out.” Once Dean was out of his shirt, John picked the steri-strips off his arm. “Be quick about it, though.”

Dean looked disgruntled, but he went.

Sherlock wondered if it was the power of John, or the fact that Dean wasn’t used to having anyone fuss over him that made him obey. Maybe both. After Dean was in the bathroom, Sherlock picked up the keys to the car, went back outside, and opened the boot. There had been no books in the back seat, so this was the logical place. He lifted the top cover and unearthed a huge supply of weapons and other sundry demon-and-spirit-hunting apparatus.

He’d have time for all of that later. Right now, he wanted books. They were scattered around on the bottom, tucked in wherever there was room. Sherlock began gathering them, noting two were in Latin, one in Spanish, one in Greek, and one in Russian. He found it very difficult to believe that Dean spoke all those languages. It was clear he was not a learned or formally educated man.

There were other books in English, all of them old. Fifteen in all, and he carried them inside, then went back out to shut the boot and lock it. Even Sherlock had seen that this car was one of Dean’s few prized possessions, and as Sherlock had need of Dean, it would be best not to incur his enmity by allowing something to happen to it.

He settled on one of the two beds, surrounded by books. John was picking through a much larger first-aid kit, looking impressed. He pulled out a suture package, a bottle of what looked to be Lidocaine, a couple of syringes, alcohol pads, and an ampule of some sort of narcotic.

“John, did you have to contend with angry spirits in Afghanistan? And why have we never spoken of this?”

“It’s not something you just bring up in a normal conversation. You can get carted away and locked up if the wrong people hear you talking about ghosts and such.” John walked over to him, putting his hand on Sherlock’s chin so he could take a better look at his cheek. Sherlock had forgotten all about it.

“When have we ever had a normal conversation?” Sherlock replied. “This is the most startling thing I have ever known, and I am not easily startled.”

“So, not bored?” John grinned at him. “No stitches for you. Some ice on that should take care of it.”

“Not bored.” Sherlock grinned back.

Dean came out, wearing sweats low on his hips, his hair towel-dried into a spiky mess. John patted the bed. Dean shot him a lewd look, a crooked smirk on his face.

John rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t an invitation. Sit, so I can get you sorted. This is an impressive kit. Where did you get the drugs?”

“Here and there,” Dean said evasively.

Stolen, Sherlock thought to himself. Given the cheap hotel room, Dean’s worn out clothing, old duffel bag, and minimal possessions, hunting supernatural creatures did not pay well.

“What’s this scar then?” John asked, pointing at an unmistakable mark of a handprint on the man’s shoulder.

“Long story,” Dean said shortly.

“Right,” John said, leaving the subject alone.

Sherlock found himself caught up in watching John’s capable hands draw up medicine, but he went back to his books when he started sticking needles in Dean. He picked up the book written in Russian. “Do you read Russian, Dean?”

“Nah. Sam could, though. At least enough to get by.”

“Sam?” John asked, as he drew out some suture attached to a small needle.

“My brother.”

“Is he still alive?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock waited for more, but Dean’s expression was shut down, so Sherlock went back to the book. It was a book of Russian folklore. “Are many fairytales actually based on truth?” he asked.

“Most of them. Believe it or not, we just worked a case that dealt with imps, fairies, and leprechauns.” Dean snorted. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. By the way? Fairies are assholes, and the leprechauns are worse.” To John, he added, “You’re good at this. Too bad you’re not always around. It doesn’t even hurt.”

“I just used some local anesthetic,” John told him. “And I am a doctor.”

“A good one, very good,” Sherlock said. “Or so I’ve been told by a reliable source.” He smiled for John’s benefit.

John chuckled. “I think you have enough first-hand evidence now, Sherlock. You hardly need to be quoting sources.”

“Quite true. And you are very good. I’d have been dead several times if not for you.”

“I could say the same,” John said in reply. He applied a dressing to the arm wound. “Now, let’s see to your chest, and then it’s to bed with you.”

Dean’s eyebrows went up.

“Do you take everything as sexual innuendo?” John asked Dean.

“Yup.” To Sherlock he said, “You read Russian?”

“Yes. And Greek, and Spanish.”

“And a handful of others, too,” John said proudly. “German, French, what else, Sherlock?”

“Enough to get by on,” Sherlock said, although he was warmed by John’s pride in him.

“As I said, no need for stitches here.” John put on another bandage after applying some antiseptic cream. “You’ll be right as rain in the morning.” He began to put things back into the kit. “Do you want some pain medication?”

There was a pause and Sherlock looked up to see Dean studying John. “Will you be here?” Dean asked. He doesn’t want to be alone, Sherlock thought. No, he can’t afford to be drugged if he is alone. And, he doesn’t want to be alone.

John glanced at Sherlock who nodded. He’d be up all night reading, so John could even sleep. “Yes. I’ll be here.”

“Then dope me up, Doc,” Dean said with a grin.

“We could all move to our hotel,” John offered. “It’s much nicer.”

“I’d rather not draw any attention to myself,” Dean said.

John snapped the ampule and pulled up its contents into a syringe. He wiped off a spot on Dean’s uninjured arm and injected the medicine. “There you go. I suspect you’ll be fast asleep in a few minutes.”

“You sure you can stay?”

“I said I would,” John said in his best you-can-trust-me voice, which was largely unnecessary as John was the most trustworthy person Sherlock had ever met.

“You can trust him,” Sherlock assured Dean.

Dean crawled into the bed, and John pulled the covers over him.

“Salt the window and door,” Dean said drowsily. He started to get up. “I should do it.”

“No, no,” John said, pushing him back down. “I’ll do it.”

Fascinated, Sherlock put the Russian folklore book down and watched John look through Dean’s supplies until he found a container of salt. John poured salt along the floor in front of the door, and then along the window sill.

“And this keeps out angry spirits?” Sherlock demanded, thinking how just a few short hours ago he’d have found this exercise ludicrous.

“Yeah. A couple of times these, um, well, roughly translated, they called them Killers of the Dead, made salt circles around the hospital tents, and told us not to come out.”

“John,” Sherlock said, shocked and annoyed, “I cannot believe you kept this from me.”

John looked entirely too pleased with himself. “I just assumed you’d already deduced it from my left earlobe, or the freckles on my arm, and thought it too dull to discuss.”

“Dull? I haven’t been this entertained in years.”

“Good for you.” John glanced around the room. “Where are we going to sleep?”

“You can sleep in this bed,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be up reading all night. I’ll be ready to defend against any creatures of the night should they attack. I won’t be found wanting again.”

“You’re allowed to be caught off guard the first time you see an angry spirit,” John told him.

Sherlock huffed in disgust. “I made a poor showing of myself. There’s no need to be kind.”

“First time for everything,” John said with a giggle.

Sherlock found himself snickering in response. John’s giggles were infectious. After the giggling died down, Sherlock shifted to the very end of the bed. “Come on. Get some sleep.”

John toed his shoes off, went briefly into the bathroom to take care of business, and then, with a sigh of relief, lay down on the bed. “Sherlock,” he began.

Sherlock shook his head. “Just sleep. I promise not to leave the room.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“I know.”

“If you know, then why did you give me the wrong answer?” John asked, with a small grin on his face coupled with a look of expectation. “Come on then, tell me what I’m thinking.”

It pleased Sherlock no end that his deducing brought John such pleasure. A part of him kept waiting for John to sneer at him and tell him to ‘piss off’, but it never came. “You want to know why I’m sitting here reading these books.”

“True. That’s true. Why are you?”

“I just learned that I know considerably less than I thought; an uncomfortable sensation at best. I am remedying the situation.”

John gazed at him for a long moment, considering his words, and then yawned. “Okay. Good night then.” He closed his eyes and dropped off just that quickly. Another John Watson trait that fascinated Sherlock.

He stared at John sleeping, his eyes running over the man’s face and hair, watching his chest rise and fall with his breaths, the slight shifts of his legs. In time, though, he went back to his books.

*****

It was coming on five in the morning when Dean awoke, got up, and staggered into the bathroom. As he was heading back to bed, his phone rang. “Yeah,” he grumbled into it. After a second he said, “I don’t know. Massachusetts, I think.”

“Lexington,” Sherlock provided.

“Right, Lexington,” Dean said. “Okay, okay, hang on.” He stumbled to the bedside table and squinted at a pad of paper there by the phone, aiming it to catch what little light there was. “Uh, Minutemen Inn on Main…”

A man suddenly appeared in front of Dean.

Sherlock almost dropped the book he was holding. Only good reflexes and excellent control kept his fingers gripped around it, and his mouth shut.

Dean disconnected his phone. “Hey, Cas. If it’s not an emergency, come back in a few hours. I need to sleep some more.” He sat on the bed and dropped back onto the pillows.

“You’re hurt.”

“Just some angry spirit. No big deal.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Cas, it’s no big deal. I’ve been hurt worse than this. You’ve hurt me worse than this.”

Cas looked unhappy at that. “Why are there two men in your hotel room?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said quietly. “And the man in the other bed is Dr. John Watson. The more interesting question is who are you? And how did you manage to just appear from nowhere?”

Cas opened his mouth, but Dean stopped him from speaking. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter,” he told Sherlock.

“No, I must know,” Sherlock insisted. The man had simply materialized out of thin air. He must be some sort of supernatural being, but clearly an ally.

“Sucks to be you,” Dean said. To Cas, he added, “I really need to sleep. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. He hadn’t realized Dean was going somewhere. Sherlock had so many questions; Dean’s leaving would not be convenient.

Cas put his hand out and made as if to touch Dean’s forehead. Before he actually made contact, Dean put his hand out to stop him. “What are you doing?”

“I simply want to heal you,” Cas said.

“Okay. But that’s all. I don’t need you to whammy me to sleep.”

There was a small smile on Cas’s face, and he touched Dean’s forehead. Dean shook out his arm. “Thanks.” He pulled the dressing off his arm and chest, and Sherlock could see that the wounds were gone. Extraordinary.

Dean crawled back under the covers, and Cas sat down on the edge next to him. “Why are these men here?”

“They helped me with a case last night. They’re okay, Cas. I’m okay.”

“I am sorry I must be away so much. I hope things will calm down soon.”

“I’ve hunted on my own before.”

“I know. But I also know you would rather not be alone. And with Sam gone…”

Dean’s eyes hardened. “I don’t want to talk about Sam.”

“Are you sure you do not want me to help you sleep?”

With a sigh, Dean capitulated. “Okay. But just this once.”

“Of course,” Cas said, although his smile told Sherlock that this was a familiar routine. Sherlock watched Cas touch Dean again, putting him instantly into a deep asleep.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask some questions, but with a sound like the beating of wings, the man was gone, and Sherlock was left in the room with two sleeping men.

This many new things were unprecedented in a year, let alone the space of one evening. Sherlock found himself grinning. So much to learn, to comprehend, to simply accept as true. An entire new world order. He wondered if Mycroft knew of any of this. There must be supernatural beings in England.

He put down the book he’d been reading, and picked up another. This one was also leather-bound, with gold-leaf accents that were almost entirely flaked off. The books were clearly used for research, with no regard for their age or worth. There was a representation of a devil on the cover, and it was titled: Demons.

The inner pages were covered with post-it notes, doing further damage to the pages. All these books should be scanned and put in a computer database. It would be so much easier to find the reference material that was needed for any particular case. He wondered how many hunters there were; how many supernatural beings there were. Did Dean have a regular job? Maybe that was what he needed to get back to, much as John Watson attempted to have a normal job while working around the cases Sherlock took on. He glanced at Dean, and at his duffel bag, and around the room at his few meager possessions. No, no job. Or, rather, more correctly, this was his job.

And now there was Cas. Good and evil supernatural beings. How did one tell the difference? Cas had healed Dean with a touch. Appeared and disappeared like a magician. And yet had had to call Dean to find out where he was. And Dean had said that Cas had hurt him. Enemy and ally? An enemy who fights with him against a common enemy? Likely.

He sat there for several minutes watching Dean sleep. Age: early thirties. Very handsome and knows it, uses it to get what he wants which, no doubt, includes sex. He appreciates John’s skills of medicine and soldiering much more than Sherlock’s brain. Threatened by people cleverer than him?

Sherlock stopped. There were too many variables he knew nothing about, making his deductions questionable. All he could glean from the leather journal and the little he’d seen were broad sweeping conclusions that might or might not be true. It was frustrating to recognize the dearth of his knowledge base in this instance, and if John were not here, he’d be waking Dean to ask him questions.

Tempering his impatience, Sherlock went back to the book about demons. Slowly a vision was filling his mind. He needed more information, but here was a life filled with crimes the like of which he’d never seen, about which he knew nothing, something that could challenge him for years.

*****

John woke up first. When he stretched, his foot pushed against Sherlock’s hip.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said.

“Oh! Sorry. Good morning.” There was more stretching, and a groan or two, and then John’s head poked out from under the covers, his hair all askew. “Everything okay?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock said casually. “Some man dropped by in the middle of the night, healed Dean, put him to sleep, and then popped out. Without the use of door or window.”

John snorted. “Right. And was there a unicorn?”

“Go and look if you don’t believe me.”

John’s look was part wonder and part skepticism, but he got up, stretched again, and moved over to Dean. Dean was sleeping on his side, his previously hurt arm visible on top. The bandage was off, and the skin was clear of any wounds.

There was a long moment of stunned appreciation, and John ran his fingers over the now unmarked skin; even the stitches were gone. “Remarkable,” John finally said. “Who was it?”

“The more appropriate question would be what was it,” Sherlock said, “but neither of them was willing to appease my curiosity.”

John grinned at him. “How terrible for you.”

“Dean said much the same thing,” Sherlock said dryly.

“We should probably be getting back to our hotel. We need to pack. Our flight is in a few hours.” John entered the bathroom and washed his mouth out with some complimentary mouthwash, gargling and spitting.

“I have questions for Dean,” Sherlock said when John was done.

John’s hand fidgeted against his leg and he pursed his lips. Sherlock knew John knew him well enough to be justifiably anxious about whatever Sherlock was thinking. “Are we not going home today?”

“I suspect not.” There was a pause, then Sherlock smiled, his hands fisting in victory. “John, think of it. A veritable stream of serial killers. I’ll never be bored again.”

“We have a life back in London. I have a life back in London.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said. It was always something. He hadn’t considered that John might not want to stay and learn with him.

“Shut the fuck up,” growled Dean. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said, “clearly you’re awake. Time for breakfast. Our treat.”

The lure of food was sufficient to get Dean out of bed and into the bathroom.

John looked deeply concerned, his forehead creased, and shoulders tight. “Sherlock…”

“What life, John?” Sherlock interrupted. “Lestrade might miss my talents, but he certainly won’t miss me. Your job bores you. Mrs. Hudson can easily replace us as tenants. What would we really be walking away from?”

“London. My home. My country. My friends.”

“I’m not asking you to become an American citizen. We’ll just stay long enough to learn what Dean can teach us, something that won’t take long, I’m sure.”

“Hey, fuck you, buddy,” Dean said, having exited the bathroom quietly enough for Sherlock not to notice. Impressive. “And I’m not training anyone, especially not you.”

Ignoring that, Sherlock asked, “How many of these angry spirits or demons are there?”

“Too many to count.”

“So there’s always another one to go after?” There was a bubble of excitement running under Sherlock’s skin. A never ending source of interesting things to do. It was truly like Christmas.

“Sometimes you have to look hard, but there’s always something going on that needs to be checked out.” Dean glared at Sherlock. “And hunters die. You’ll die if you do this long enough.”

“I hunt murderers at home; I’m routinely in danger.”

“People,” Dean scoffed disparagingly, as if that said it all.

To Sherlock it did. “Exactly!”

Dean looked momentarily disconcerted to find himself in agreement with Sherlock. “I’m still not teaching you. Besides, if you’re so sure I don’t have that much to teach, you can go fucking learn it yourself. And somewhere else. Go back to London and hunt demons there.”

“Don’t take offense,” Sherlock said airily. “No one really has much to teach me. I’ll catch on quickly.”

Dean looked at John. “Why do you hang out with this guy?”

“He makes life interesting.”

“How is it that you’re not dead,” Sherlock asked Dean, “considering how long you’ve been doing this?”

“What do you mean by that? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think. I know you started this life when you were a young child after your mother was killed by a demon. I know your father chose a life of revenge and dragged you and your brother along with him.”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped at him. “How do you know that any of that?”

“That’s the genius part,” John said apologetically. “I think it’s brilliant, but I’ve been told it tends to piss people off.”

Cas was suddenly in their midst again. Ignoring Sherlock and John, he spoke directly to Dean. “Dean, I am glad I caught you before you left. You need to go to North Carolina.”

“Why? I thought I was going to Grand Junction.”

“How did you heal him?” John asked, moving into Cas’s line of sight.

Cas looked at John for a long time, long enough for Sherlock to believe that something was happening, and he was missing it. He moved closer to John, wanting to see Cas’s face. The man’s eyes were probing, as if discovering everything there was to know about John. At the end of it, he had a soft smile for John, as if pleased with what he found.

Dean tugged on Cas’s raincoat. “Focus. What’s in North Carolina?”

“There is an increase in demon activity in Asheville. They have sigils to keep me out.”

“Great,” Dean muttered.

“Just go and remove the sigils and I will join you.”

“Awesome. You always make it sound like it’s gonna be easy, and yet somehow it never is.”

“We can help,” Sherlock said, sensing an opportunity.

This time it was Sherlock who received a probing look from Cas. It was hard to stay still, to allow the perusal, but he stayed motionless, watching back, looking at Cas’s face for some indication of what he was thinking. But Cas’s face gave little away. Gesturing at John while his gaze stayed on Sherlock, Cas said, “The fate of your soul depends on this man.”

Sherlock thought it was a ridiculous thing for him to say, but it had a visceral and disconcerting feel of truth to it.

“Stay steadfast,” Cas said to John. “He walks a dangerous path between light and dark.”

To Dean he said, “You need help. Let them help.”

Dean scowled. “He’s an asshole.” Meaning Sherlock.

“You’ve said worse of me,” Cas said with a small affectionate smile.

“At least you help.”

“I haven’t agreed to any of this,” John protested, although Sherlock could see that Cas’s words had rattled him. “I can’t just go to North Carolina. We have plane tickets this afternoon to go home.” He punctuated home with a sharp look at Sherlock.’

“Take them with you,” Cas said again.

“You are not the boss of me,” Dean argued.

Cas moved closer to Dean, making it difficult for Sherlock to hear their conversation without a too obvious attempt at eavesdropping. He turned his attention to a more necessary one. “John.”

“Helping the coppers isn’t enough of a thrill?” John spit out angrily. “Now you want to go after angry spirits, and demons, and creatures that don’t have a shred of humanity left in them, whose only goal is to destroy, based on their own convoluted, confused concept of right and wrong and vengeance? Are you that ready to throw your life away? To throw mine away?”

His anger and questions startled a “No!” out of Sherlock. At least about throwing John’s life away. John wasn’t allowed to die. “Maybe you should go back to London. That might be best.” John could go back to a safe life, away from Sherlock. He ignored the part of him that was beating fists against a wall at the thought of a life without John Watson.

John had a mulish look on his face, apparently nowhere near convinced about staying or leaving.

“John, listen to me.”

John was still angry, oh, very angry, but he listened, teeth clenched, body poised as if under attack, as if trying to decide which way he’d have to move when the bullets started flying.

“I can’t…” Sherlock stopped, not sure where to go with his words. Living inside his head was torture so much of the time, interspersed with moments of intense pleasure when he was able to bring all his faculties to bear on a problem. But so little captured all of him, and he was left with a sense of uselessness. “Why have this skill, this mind, this intellect, if I can’t use it?”

“You do use it, you help catch criminals.”

“Which anyone can do.”

“Not like you,” John said.

“True, but some of the time they’ll get there in the end.”

“Do you really want me to go back to London on my own?”

“Of course not. Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. “You just accused me of trying to throw your life away, and you’ll certainly be safer without me, here or in London.”

“Have I ever said I want a safe life?”

“Then why not this one?” Sherlock demanded.

“I never said I wanted a more dangerous one.”

“I can do this. We can do this. You’re already a natural, even Dean thought so. Together, John. We’ll be magnificent.” Oh, how Sherlock wanted this. The adrenaline was surging through him, just anticipating the novelty of this life. Something new every day. Unbelievable.

“Would you stay even if I said I wanted to go back?”

Sherlock was tempted to say no, because he knew it would make John feel better, and might convince him to be willing to give it a go. He was also tempted to say yes, because how could he walk away from this? But he didn’t want to do it without John. But he also knew London would seem so dull now, and while he might be able to start hunting spirits in London, he actually had no idea what to look for, no matter how humiliating that was to admit. For the life of him, he couldn’t come up with an answer.

John’s eyes narrowed and he studied Sherlock carefully. A sudden grin appeared on his face. “I never expected to stun your brain with that question. I’m flattered you’re even thinking about it.”

“I want you with me, and I want us here.” That was the most honest answer.

“Two weeks,” John said. “We’ll go to wherever these demons are, and we help out. Then, we talk about it, and if either one of us almost dies, we go home.”

“Fine.” Sherlock would take what he could get. It would give him more time to talk John into staying longer. And, naturally, he’d make sure nothing happened to either him or John.

Dean and Cas seemed to end their conversation at the same time.

Dean said grudgingly, “You can come.”

At the same time, John said, “We’ll come with you.”

“Good,” Cas said, and he vanished.

Dean let out a curse. “I hate it when he does that.”

“What, exactly, is he?” Sherlock asked, hoping he might get an answer this time.

“Forget it. I said you could come, not that you could pry into my personal business. I’m gonna take a shower. Be back here in an hour.” With that Dean grabbed some clothes, stalked into the bathroom, and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock jumped up into the air, grinning madly. “Yes!”

John sighed.

Undeterred, still grinning madly, Sherlock said, “We have a lot to do in an hour. I suspect he’ll attempt to leave without us.”

“Are you sure about this?” John asked, a hint of plaintiveness in his voice.

“Demon hunters,” Sherlock exclaimed. “John, we’re going to be demon hunters!” He picked up the keys on the bureau.

“What are you doing with those?”

“Taking them. That way he can’t leave without us.”

“We’re about to be locked in a car with him for hours. Not sure if pissing him off is the best thing to do.”

“Good point. I’ll stay here. You go get our things.”

“Right,” John said, sitting down. “You go. Dean likes me. If he comes out and finds just you sitting here, you’ll both probably be dead by the time I get back.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t know where we are.” Not that he couldn’t work it out, eventually, but he’d scarcely had time, let alone the inclination, to memorize every street here.

“Oh my God, you’re entirely useless.” John flung the hotel door open. “If you are gone by the time I get back, I am flying back to London without you.”

Indignant, Sherlock said, “I just said I wanted you with me, didn’t I?” Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d made such a personal declarative statement.

“And you’re sitting in the back seat.”

That was fine with Sherlock. He’d barely made a dent in the books. “Fine.”

“Fine.” And with that John was out the door.

Sherlock’s body was fizzing like an over-flowing flute of champagne. He could already see his new website: Sherlock Holmes: Demon Hunter. He let out a cry of sheer delight and then pulled out his phone. He had some texts to send. He pulled up Mycroft and typed in: Staying in America. Hunting demons.

END


	2. In Which Sherlock Discovers Things Bite Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, John and Sherlock help Castiel out, and Mycroft proves once again that he knows everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deduces that someone was raped, and he isn't very nice about disclosing it (read ugly). There's a reason for that, but be forewarned. And remember, it's Sherlock talking, not me!!!! Oh, and yes, for those of you who don't watch Supernatural, fanfiction, including Wincest, is canon.
> 
> And it's still pre-slash for both couples, but that will change, I promise!!

Chapter 2

"Are we there yet?"

"Jesus Christ," Dean griped. "You're worse than Sammy when he was five years old. We've only been driving for two hours."

Sherlock didn't appreciate John's giggling coming from the front seat. He sat back in a fit of pique.

"Maps?" John asked Dean, hand poised over the glove box.

"And some other stuff," Dean warned him.

Sherlock leaned up far enough to see what 'other stuff' entailed.

John popped open the glove box and had to hold his hands up to stem the tide of identification badges. "FBI?" Sherlock asked as one flipped open on John's lap.

John picked it up and handed it and a couple of others back to him, despite Dean's grumbling about it.

Sherlock took a good look and saw immediately that it was shoddy work. The pictures were clearly glued on, and the fonts didn't match or line up. "Do these really work?" he asked scornfully.

"Yup," Dean answered shortly. "No one looks too closely at badges, and I got someone on a phone who backs me up."

Sherlock humphed.

"Says the man who steals coppers' badges for fun and uses them whenever convenient," John remarked, digging through more badges before pulling out a battered map of the United States. "May I write on it?"

Dean shrugged.

John circled one area on the map and then, after peering for a long while at a particular spot, circled another. "Here," he said, handing it to Sherlock. "First place is where we started, Lexington, Massachusetts, and the next is where we're going. Asheville, North Carolina."

"Where are we now?"

Grabbing the map back and after Dean said, "Outside of Hartford, Connecticut," John circled another spot and then gave the map to Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned at the map. "We've barely started," he complained.

"Should take us about fifteen hours," Dean said, smirking.

Dismayed, Sherlock opened the map further, taking his first good look, in a long time, at the United States of America. "This country is enormous."

"Yes," John said. "Yes, it is."

"How on earth did we think we'd win in a war against them? And they call me arrogant." Sherlock scoffed at the historic monarchy that launched a war against a country this large.

"Sherlock," John said incredulously, turning and staring.

"What?" At the look on John's face, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, what, is this something else like who the prime minister is, or if the sun goes around the moon?"

"The earth goes around the sun, and yes," John stated strongly. "Thirteen colonies? Ring a bell?"

"No doubt I've deleted it as unnecessary information."

"Are you sure he's not a retard?" Dean asked John. "Even I know about the thirteen colonies."

Sherlock refused to discuss it anymore and studied the map. Looking at the legend, he realized the whole of Great Britain wasn't much bigger than the state of Minnesota. He started counting states.

"Fifty," John said.

Sherlock looked up at him. "What?"

"There are fifty states. And a territory or two, I never can keep up."

"It never ceases to amaze me how much truly useless information you have in your head. No wonder you never know anything of import."

"If you plan to be a hunter, you better know where each one of those states is," Dean snapped at him.

Interesting that Dean was defending John. Why was he defending John? "It seems to me that flying would be a much more efficient way to move around a country of this size."

"And I'm sure airline security wouldn't have any problem with me taking all my weapons with me," Dean said.

Sherlock conceded the point, but this driving thing was a ridiculous waste of time. He tossed the map to the seat and went back to reading. This particular tome was a gratuitous account of historic hunters. Sherlock was sure much of it was artistic license and hyperbole; however there must be some useful information in here if Dean kept it for a resource. On second thought, Sherlock surmised, that wasn't necessarily true at all. Dean seemed much more the sort to make it up as he went along, rather than base his actions on scholarly research.

His phone cheeped at him, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
DON'T BE RIDICULOUS. COME HOME AT ONCE.  
MH

It was a belated response to the text he'd sent Mycroft over three hours ago.

Sherlock smirked.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
NO. I'M NOT BORED.  
SH

Of course Sherlock was bored, but that was because of the interminable car ride. Once they arrived, he knew he wouldn't be bored at all.

There was a long pause, minutes actually, and Sherlock found himself running through all the possible responses Mycroft might be pondering. Finally there was a chirp, and he read,

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU ENGAGE WITH DEAN WINCHESTER.  
MH

Sherlock was not happy at this proof that Mycroft knew enough about demons to know his current tutor. Mycroft always got to the interesting things first; it was infuriating.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock handed him his phone.

John's eyebrows went up. "Mycroft knows Dean?"

"Who's Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's brother," John said.

"Did your mother hate you guys, or something?" Dean asked. "Mycroft? Sherlock?"

Sherlock sent him a narrow-eyed glare.

John turned so he could look at Sherlock properly. "How on earth does Mycroft know about Dean?"

"Mycroft knows everything," Sherlock said disgruntledly. "I despise him." On the other hand, he was doing exactly what Mycroft was telling him not to do, and that was always a good use of his time.

"And why would he tell you not to work with him?" John asked, still puzzling over the texts.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, trying to get a glimpse of the phone.

"Sherlock has this brother who works for the British government..." John began.

"He is the British government," Sherlock interrupted.

"Right. Anyway, he does seem to know everything about everything in a fairly disconcerting way," John finished.

"And he knows about me?" Dean asked, alarmed now, slamming on his brakes and driving the car to the side of the road. "How does he know about me?"

Sherlock removed the hand he'd used to brace himself against the front seat, frowned at Dean, and said, "No idea." His phone chirped.

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
I TAKE IT FROM YOUR LACK OF RESPONSE THAT I AM TOO LATE. UNDERSTAND THIS: DEAN WINCHESTER CANNOT DIE, BUT YOU CAN. LEAVE HIM AT ONCE.  
MH

That was intriguing. He showed the text to John and Dean. "Explain please."

"I can, too, die," Dean said, affronted, as if being not allowed to die was a grievous wrong. "I've died plenty of times, and none of them were any fun."

That got a rise out of Sherlock's eyebrows. "You've died plenty of times? Surely you mean that you almost died."

"Forget about that. This is bad that your brother knows about me, especially if he knows how to find you. I'm kind of wanted."

Sherlock shot him a scathing look, finding that difficult to believe. Maybe wanted for a night of sex by some giggling brainless waitress in the no doubt endless diners Dean thrived on, but surely not for more than that. "Wanted for what?"

John, once again, seemed to catch on first, which aggravated Sherlock. It wasn't fair that John seemed to be off and running with this whole change of lifestyle, stranding Sherlock at the starting gate.

"Wanted, as a criminal, yes?" John asked Dean nicely. "I suspect you break some laws fighting off the supernatural?"

"And then they take everything the worst way possible, and end up blaming me for the damage done by whatever the hell it is that I've just killed. Forget about getting thanks," Dean added bitterly, "I just end up on the Most Wanted list."

"I'd still like an explanation for your comment," Sherlock stated firmly. "How exactly have you died?"

Dean waved a hand as if the subject bored him. "What kind of government job does your brother have? Is he with the police?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and texted.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO HAVE DEAN WINCHESTER ARRESTED.  
SH

To Dean, he stated again. "Dead?" Dean, for all the fact that he seemed, aside from the demon hunting, so boringly predictable, was proving himself to be a delectable puzzle.

Dean ground his teeth noticeably, put the car back in drive and pulled onto the road. "Do not tell him where we are."

"He undoubtedly already knows," John said. "Both the Holmes brothers can be very annoying that way."

"Will he make trouble?" Dean asked.

"You may be sure of it," Sherlock complained. His phone chirped.

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
D. WINCHESTER'S RECORD NOTWITHSTANDING, IT IS AN UNDENIABLE FACT THAT HE ALWAYS STANDS IN THE VORTEX OF THE MOST DANGEROUS SUPERNATURAL ACTIVITY.  
MH

"Lovely," Sherlock murmured, choosing not to respond. He slid the phone into his pocket. As far as Dean's reticence to speak of his own death-courting behavior, well, he and John tended to do their own dance of that sort, repeatedly. He was sure he'd hear the stories eventually. And it wasn't as if Dean actually had died. Even in the midst of this--previously thought impossible--adventure he and John were on, there were some things too ridiculous to contemplate.

*****

They were just crossing over the border into North Carolina when his phone chirped again. Sherlock retrieved it and slid his finger across the bottom to open the text.

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
AVOID WITCHES AT ALL COST.  
MH

"Witches?" Sherlock said out loud. There had been nothing about witches in any of the books he'd read.

"I hate witches," Dean said vehemently. "They suck."

Castiel suddenly appeared in the back seat, causing Dean to almost drive off the road and Sherlock's heart to skip a few beats. Sherlock's mind was racing with the vast numbers of physics laws being broken by this man every time he appeared. It was vexing.

"Jesus, Cas, give a guy some warning will you? And how did you find me?"

"Sherlock and John," Castiel said. "There's been an additional complication."

"Witches?" Sherlock asked hopefully. The thrill of being able to defy Mycroft in so many ways in one day was a rare experience.

"Yes," Castiel said.

Sherlock grinned.

"Fuck," Dean said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. How many?"

"I am unable to ascertain that information."

"How do you know there are witches, then?" Dean asked, even as he took one of the small bags Castiel was handing out, tucking it into a pocket.

Castiel handed Sherlock one, and then reached over the seat to hand the last one to John. "These should offer you some protection."

"Fuck." Dean shook his head, slammed his hands on the steering wheel, then squared his shoulders, and said, "So where am I going?"

"I will direct you as far as I am able. Then you will need to continue on your own to eliminate the sigils that keep me out."

"I'll just bet whatever witches they have are guarding the sigils," Dean said morosely.

"It is possible you will only need to eliminate one sigil. If it looks like this," Castiel added, showing a picture of a roughly sketched symbol Sherlock committed to memory, "then destroying it alone will be sufficient. If they have done their homework and use either of these," this time Castiel held up a piece of paper with two quickly drawn symbols on it, "then we have a bigger problem."

"Which means what?" Dean asked.

"They will all need to be destroyed. There will be one on every wall that connects to the outside."

"How do you destroy them?" Sherlock asked.

"Cut a hole through one of the lines," Dean said. "Like a finger through a salt line. Or an axe through a wall."

Sherlock would need an appropriate weapon; one of Dean's knives from the boot of the car would do. He took one of the drawings. "What are they made with?" He was speaking of the sigils, but his fingers worried the contents of the small bag in his hand, curious as to its contents.

"We better hope they don't actually know any angel banishment sigils," Dean said, ignoring Sherlock's question. "Bad enough they can keep you out, without sending you on a field trip." Dean sighed. "Fuck," he said, then pulled back out onto the road, popped a cassette into the car's tape player and very loud music filled the car.

"Is this completely necessary?" Sherlock yelled, even as he was uncomfortably mentally toying with the word angel.

"Yes," Dean said loudly, ending the conversation, drumming a riff on the steering wheel. "Bitch about it again, and I'll turn it up."

Sherlock frowned at him then shifted it to John when he saw the corners of his lips were curled up. He was no doubt comparing Sherlock's behavior to Dean's, which was radically unfair. He sat back in a huff. As soon as he knew what he needed to know, he and John would get their own vehicle.

Castiel chose that moment to disappear. Sherlock spent a long moment trying to come up with any plausible explanations as to how he did that, while he flipped through all the books looking for entries about angels or witches. When that proved remarkably unhelpful, he let it go for the moment. He opened the small bag he'd been given and, surreptitiously so no one would notice, poured out the filling into his hand for perusal.

*****

When they finally arrived and scoped the place out, they were no wiser than they'd been before, and there was nothing else for it but to just go in to get a closer look. Dean had them wait until dark before entering.

From the outside, it appeared to be a nursing home, and the sign read: The Dogwood Nursing and Rehabilitation Center. The yard was filled with dogwoods--cornus florida--hence presumably the name. It wasn't a large building, Sherlock thought, assessing its size, wouldn't hold more than thirty residents with a small staff. Probably fewer, given the ragged shape of the place.

It was located across from a shopping centre where Dean had parked. It had several shops boarded up, and ones that weren't were closed due to the time of day. While many of the large lights in the parking lot were out, there were enough to throw some illumination on the nursing home. They were parked in a darkened area, glass shattered around the base of the surrounding light poles.

There was an enclosed dirt field at the end of the street and a few small houses beyond that. Down the other side of the nursing home, the dogwood trees abutted against some woods. Sherlock's gaze ran over the nursing home property. Something caught his eye. "There," he pointed. "I see a pair of shoes that, by the way they are laying, must be connected to a body."

John had the door open immediately. Dean reached across him and shut it. "Okay, listen up." Dean waited until Sherlock and John were looking at him. "Worst case scenario, everyone in there, from staff to patients, is dead, or taken over by demons. Don't help anyone until I tell you that it's okay, otherwise you could end up dead really fast. Demons love to play games and fuck with your head, and witches who help demons are worse."

"I can't just not help someone--" John started.

"Yeah, you can," Dean said firmly, "because if they're dead, you can't do anything about it. If they're dying, you can't do anything about it until we take care of what's killing them in the first place, and if they're not dying, they can wait. Our first order of business is to take care of the danger. If we find unharmed civilians in there then we can try to rescue them, but don't get your hopes up. Demons like to make a mess."

John's eyes were dark with frustration. He opened his mouth as if to argue then shut it, his hands fisted on his thighs.

"I'm all about saving people too, but this hunt's a little different. This is Cas's business, which means it's really bad news. Normally he'd take care of this on his own, or maybe I'd lend a hand, but he can't get in without our help. Soldier first, this time, then a doctor," Dean said. "Can you do that?"

John nodded reluctantly.

To Sherlock, Dean said, "Just try not to get us killed, okay?"

Sherlock sent him his most scathing glare.

Dean sighed. "I can't believe I'm taking you two in there. This is such a bad idea."

In all seriousness, John asked, "Would it be better if we stayed out here? I don't want to get in your way."

Sherlock did. Not the get in the way part, not that he would, but he had no intention of sitting this out. When there were demons inside? And witches?

"No, Castiel was right, I do need some help. So here's the plan. We get in, we assess the sigil situation. If you see the easy one, just take care of it and yell out for Castiel. If you see the other kind, we'll have to hunt for them all. Try not to let anyone notice you." He let out a mirthless laugh.

"What's so amusing?"

"The fact that I know they're waiting for us. For me, anyway. They're always freaking waiting for me. I'm just not sure what they're doing here. There's no point in breaking any more seals; been there, got the t-shirt. I guess they could be trying to raise something." His lips tightened. "I hate going in with so little information."

"I believe they are attempting to let Lucifer out of his cage," Castiel said, from his spot in the back seat that had been empty a second before. "They will not be successful, but they could open a hole that will allow other demons to exit."

Dean scowled, closed his eyes for a moment, breathed out a long breath, and then reopened them; Sherlock could see the fierce determination in them. "Okay, here's the plan, take two. One, destroy the sigils so Castiel can get in there and kick some ass. Two, if you see an altar or something that looks like a serious ritual going on, mess it up. Three, don't get killed." He opened up the car door. "Let's get some weapons."

Sherlock was first at the back of the car.

Once the boot was open, Dean unzipped a bag, slid out a pistol, a Colt, Sherlock thought, and tucked it in the back waistband of his trousers.

Dean handed John a serrated knife. "Good news: this kills demons. Bad news: it kills the human, too, unless you don't go for a killing wound. That may or may not kill the demon, although they usually leave at that point. Humans with demons inside can be exorcised, and sometimes we can save them. Got it?"

Sherlock and John nodded. Sherlock couldn't wait to get inside; there was so much to see and learn.

"Sherlock," John snapped at him. "Are you listening to him at all?"

"Yes," Sherlock said irritably. "Try not to kill any humans, demon-infested or otherwise." The orders were very concise; what made it all exciting was that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how it would all play out. He truly couldn't recall a time when he was entering a situation with so little to go on. He rubbed his hands together in glee. So much could go wrong! Of course, he'd have to make sure John wasn't harmed. That was essential.

"I'll wait out here, listening for your call," Castiel said, looking worried. "Return if it is too dangerous."

Sherlock noticed John looking at him and Dean and rolling his eyes. Now that John had brought it to Sherlock's attention, Dean did have a somewhat manic look in his eye.

Dean handed Sherlock a second knife. "That's to cut any sigils you find," he explained. He thrust a pistol at Sherlock, grip first. Sherlock also tucked it under his back waistband after checking to ensure the safety was on. Then John was handed a shotgun, a pistol, and both of them were handed flasks. "Holy water," Dean explained, and packages of salt, "Demons hate salt too." Dean pulled out an axe for himself.

Sherlock put everything away, committing their location to memory for easy retrieval. He found himself captivated watching John capably handle all his weapons, looking dangerous and steadfast. So much power in someone so small, Sherlock mused. Another one of the paradoxes about John.

"You have to do what I say," Dean stated. "I need to know I can count on you. If I yell out an order, you do it, no questions."

John nodded easily. Sherlock nodded, only less so. Dean gave him a look that said he'd seen the difference; it was followed by a scowl and a look of resignation, ending with an abbreviated eye roll.

With that, they were on their way toward the back. Close up, the building showed more signs of disrepair. There were several cracked windows, and the flowers that had been planted at one time close to the house were dead or dying, the earth dry and cracked.

Dean sneaked a peek through one of the cracked windows. He shook his head, and moved on. Once at the back of the facility, Dean again peeked in. He quickly moved away to the side of the window. "Two demons and a woman, who I'm guessing is a witch." He took another quick look. "I can't see if there's a sigil or not. The window's too dirty."

He gestured them to a window well encasing a window that led into what was presumably a basement. Dean took a look around, crouched down, testing it, and then shoved it open. He handed his axe to John, and with a graceful economy of motion, he swung himself inside, then reached up for the axe.

John, in turn, handed Sherlock his shotgun, then followed Dean inside, not quite as gracefully but with remarkably little noise. In under a minute, they were all inside, and Dean was shutting the window.

The house was unnaturally silent, and Sherlock found himself shivering in response. He'd never considered himself psychic in any way, never needed to be with his ability to ferret out the truth so easily, but there was something wrong in this place; it made him doubt that any of the residents were still alive. Sherlock prided himself on not letting his imagination get the best of him, but this building smelled like death and worse.

Dean was silently checking out the room they were in. It was large; Sherlock guessed it was half of the footprint of the building. It was used for storage: stacks of laundry, crates of paper towels, toilet paper, bottled water, basic medical supplies, as well as boxes labeled with names, probably the belongings of the residents that wouldn't fit in their rooms.

Sherlock heard a subtle beat and, for a quick moment, thought it might be his own heartbeat, but he moved to a wall and put his hand on it. The wall was vibrating with a rhythm generating on the other side. "In there," he said quietly.

Dean joined him, putting his hand on the wall as well.

Now that Sherlock was close, he could hear chanting going on in some deep guttural language he didn't recognize. Quietly, they left the room they were in, and found themselves in a short corridor that held the staircase going up, as well as two other doors. John moved to the far door, the one that most likely didn't connect to the room where the ritual was taking place, and carefully opened it.

He took a quick look around then moved inside letting the door shut behind him.

Sherlock gave him ten seconds and then he was moving to follow when John came out. "Bathroom," he mouthed. Then he swallowed. "There're two dead people in there."

There was nothing to be said about that.

Dean turned the knob of the remaining door and barely opened it. Sherlock's height allowed him to see over Dean's head, and he felt John peer in lower down. In the two seconds the door was open, Sherlock saw an altar with a body on it, cut open, like a butcher might gut a pig, intestines spilling out of the body, the floor covered with blood and several feet of small intestine.

There were five people around the altar chanting, all of them elderly, Sherlock put their ages at seventy plus, except for one younger woman, perhaps in her thirties, who had her hands inside the person's body, holding the intestines. The four older peoples' eyes were completely black.

The door snicked closed, much to Sherlock's dismay. He could have stood there for hours watching that, trying to understand.

"Divination," Dean whispered, a look of disgust on his face.

John looked like he might be sick to his stomach. No suggestions were forthcoming about rescuing whoever was on the table, because they were clearly dead. They might not have been at the start, but there was too much blood on the floor to be compatible with life.

"Should we try to stop it?" John asked softly.

Dean shook his head, answering just as softly. "It doesn't look like they're summoning anything yet. They're looking for information."

Dean began to move silently up the stairs, and Sherlock was impressed at how he moved, the years of training and discipline obvious. Dean put his ear against the door at the top. He studied Sherlock and John for a long moment, and Sherlock wondered if he was considering giving the whole thing up as a bad idea. But then he turned the knob slowly and cracked the door open.

"Dean Winchester," an old woman's voice called out. "We were wondering when you were coming to the party."

"Wouldn't miss it," Dean said tightly, gesturing at Sherlock and John to stay hidden. He walked out through the door, pushing it almost closed.

Sherlock tried to see what was going on, but the angles were all wrong. He let out a subdued grunt of frustration. He could smell something sweet burning. Sweet grass, he thought to himself. He listened intently, trying to determine if there were more than the three Dean had sighted through the window.

"We know you brought friends with you," she said. "Introduce them to us. We can have some fun with them while we wait for Starlight to get us the information we need."

"Starlight?" mocked Dean. "Give me a fucking break. The witch bitch downstairs, up to her wrists in blood and guts, is named Starlight?" He snorted.

"This one's name is Athena," the same woman said with an edge of merciless delight. "She's very good at what she does. Very. She might not be able to kill you, but she can make you wish you were dead."

"Looks like she's busy doing something else," Dean said. "Guess it's my lucky day."

There was that 'not being able to die' issue again, Sherlock thought. Was it possible? He dismissed that thought and refocused on Dean's conversation. They knew Sherlock and John were there, but Dean was trying to give them what information he could before they entered the fray. Considering the situation, Sherlock felt it safe to assume that the witch was, indeed, doing something to power the sigil that kept Castiel out.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room, attempting to leave John behind but, as usual, John was having none of it, and followed Sherlock in. Sherlock's eyes took in the room with a single glance.

More dead bodies, ten at least that he could see. Two octogenarians were staring at him and John: the woman in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, the man in an alarming pair of plaid pants, old, topped with a washed-out striped short-sleeved shirt.

They were a feast for his eyes. From their appearance, their clothes, even her lipstick and his cologne, Sherlock deduced much about them, their lives here, how long they'd been here. But he knew none of it was true, not anymore; they moved wrong, smiled wrong, spoke wrong, everything conflicted with the other information. Needless to say, the all-black eyes were a dead give-away: while their bodies might be old, what was inside was no doubt older. The dichotomy of their appearance and their activity was striking.

"Who's your friend?" the old woman said in a seductive voice, her eyes trailing all over Sherlock in a highly disturbing manner.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said. His gaze fell on the presumed witch. She was young, in her thirties, attractive, auburn hair, blue eyes, clear skin. Her eyes were also ancient, but he suspected it was due to life trauma, not because someone else inhabited her skin.

"Maybe I'll move into you," the old woman said, moving closer, running her gnarled, loose-skinned hands over his chest, brittle fingernails catching on the fine silk of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock guessed that didn't mean sexually. "I'll pass, thanks." Though a part of him was intrigued; what would it feel like to have whatever was in this woman, in him? He caught Dean's eye quickly, and Dean nodded toward the witch.

Orders to distract. Sherlock could do that. He hadn't missed the witch's approving eye as she glanced at Sherlock. Following that, a dozen emotions had crossed her face, attraction, horror, anger, frustration, determination, anger again, and some mixture of unhappiness and satisfaction. She'd pinched hard at her side, squeezed her thighs together, and committed several other tells that told Sherlock everything he needed to know about her pathetically tragic past. This would be all too easy. Distract her? He'd eviscerate her.

"Did he brand you?" Sherlock asked, slipping away from the thing offering to take over his body and focusing all his attention on the witch.

The witch's eyes flew to his, startled. "What?" she said.

"When he raped you. Did he brand you?"

Her eyes grew hard, and she started muttering under her breath, going back to her spell work. Sherlock caught her looking to her right several times; as though her eyes were drawn there by something she needed to be sure of.

"Dean," he called. "That wall."

"Shut him up," one of the demons said, and Sherlock could hear footsteps heading in his direction.

"How about I shut you up?" Dean asked.

Sherlock left the demons to Dean and John's care, and refocused on the witch.

"How long did it take you to work up your nerve?" Sherlock asked. "How long did his actions fester inside before you thought to kill him? I expect you wanted to castrate him but lost your nerve, resorting to poison, despite how much you despised him. And despise him you did, mostly because a part of you liked what he did to you. Not the branding, of course, few would like that, but the sex. You like sex. You need it. It must be difficult for you to hate men so much, and yet be only too willing to spread your thighs for them. I saw how you looked at me, how you shifted. Under different circumstances, you'd be trying to get me between your legs. You're like a black widow, luring them in, only to cry foul and turn to murder."

She chanted louder, desperately, losing her focus. A sigil, the first one Castiel had shown them, flickered on the wall then was gone. Sherlock could hear the sounds of fighting behind him, heard John grunt, then curse. Signs of him being still alive, which was good.

It appeared again. "Dean," he called, to get the man's attention. Sherlock reached for his own knife, thought about lunging for the wall himself.

He refocused on the witch. "You were married." He'd seen her thumb touching her ring finger of her left hand. "Did you think he wouldn't notice how damaged you were? How much your body craved the sex, while your mind hated it? Is that why you became a witch? To get your revenge? How many have you killed now? A dozen? More?"

He heard something whiz by his head and saw Dean's axe make a perfect landing on the wall, severing one line of the sigil.

"Castiel!" Dean yelled, and then Castiel was there.

Sherlock turned his attention away from the witch, having done what had been asked, and saw Castiel slam his hand against the old woman, watching light pour out of every crevice as she screamed in terror. At the same time, the old man opened his mouth and a dark, fetid, black smoke poured out of him, circled the room, and then left through a crack in the window.

His mouth having dropped open, Sherlock snapped it shut. Was that a demon? That smoke? What was it? He strode to the window to see if it had left any residue behind.

Too late, he realized he shouldn't have turned his back on the witch, because she started chanting again, and his guts began to roil. He bent over, and then fell to his knees. His gut was on fire, so much so that he looked down, expecting to see flames covering his torso. He coughed and spat out blood.

"Stop it," a voice said, and he looked up to see John's gun against her head. "Stop it right now or I will kill you."

Despite his agony, Sherlock thrilled at John's words. He loved it when John was the angry soldier, protecting Sherlock as if he were the hill upon which John would win or die trying.

He spat out another mouthful of blood, saw, to his horror, that it had a bee in it, stumbling around, still alive. His whole being recoiled at the thought that his belly was full of those things, that the fire was the stings of countless numbers of insects. "John!" he cried out in desperation.

"Stop it," John demanded again, "or I will shoot."

"Go ahead," the witch taunted. "It's too late. They'll keep stinging him, filling him with venom until he dies in excruciating pain."

John punched her, hard, and she spun around, slamming into the wall, before she fell to the ground, unconscious. John was immediately beside Sherlock.

Sherlock coughed, gagged, and threw up, blood and more insects falling from his mouth.

"Oh, God!" John cried. "Dean!"

Dean came running from wherever he'd been and skid to a stop next to Sherlock. "Fuck. Okay, that's disgusting. I told you I hate witches!"

Sherlock now understood why. He was sorry he'd ignored Mycroft's warning. He gagged and threw up again, a dozen bees now on the floor, buzzing angrily, slipping through the blood, several attempting to fly away. One landed on his hand and stung him. "Make it stop!" he cried, undone completely. How could this be happening? He could feel the effects of the bee venom spreading through his body. Sherlock grew short of breath. He coughed and felt the buzzing of a bee in his mouth. He tried to spit it out, and it stung his tongue. He rammed his fingers in his mouth to scrape it out.

"We need to take him to the hospital!" John demanded. "Now!"

"And tell them what? That he ate a hive of bees? They'll commit him."

"At least he'll be alive!" John yelled. "We can break him out later."

"Right, right. No, wait." Dean threw the door open to the basement. "Hey, Cas, is this a bad time? I need your help."

Cas was suddenly there looking pissed off and dangerous, his hands covered with blood. "What, Dean? I am rather busy at the moment."

"Fix him and then you can go back to your party."

Castiel looked down at Sherlock, who could feel the bees stinging his throat and mouth as he threw up more blood and insects. Sherlock wouldn't have cared if Castiel killed him. Anything was better than this. Anything.

Two fingers touched his forehead, and it was all gone. The pain, the effects of the venom, even the sting on his hand and tongue was healed. All that remained was the blood and insects still on the floor. John stomped on any that remained alive, then pulled Sherlock away, sitting on the floor and wrapping his arms around him. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Thanks," Dean told Cas. "Call if you need help."

Then Cas was gone.

Sherlock rolled into John, his head on John's chest, the beating of his heart a soothing counterpart to Sherlock's frantically racing one. He felt as if the insects were crawling all over him still, inside and out. "They're gone, right?"

"All gone. I promise. Christ." John held him tightly, rocking him. "Christ."

"What I want to know is where the hell your hex bag is?" Dean asked sharply. "She shouldn't have been able to hurt you so badly."

It was in the back seat of the car, dismembered, little seahorses, and black beans, eyes of some creature, a cross, some dried out organs, a heart and a liver, Sherlock had thought at the time, a tiger eye, a piece of red jasper and turquoise, an image of St. Francis, and a half-handful of herbs and roots. Ridiculous. Sherlock had been so sure that such a motley assortment of detritus could never protect him.

"Sorry," he managed to choke out, afraid if he opened his mouth that bees would fly out.

"You're gonna be one of those hunters who have to learn every lesson the hard way, aren't you?" Dean said, half-annoyed, half-amused. "I just hope you don't kill me or John along the way."

"What will happen to her?" John asked grimly.

He was still holding Sherlock, and Sherlock was glad of it. Never had he felt John's strength and solidness more keenly.

"I don't know. Nice punch, by the way."

"Are any of them still alive?"

Sherlock assumed John was talking about all the bodies surrounding them.

"No. They're all dead. Sorry, Doc."

He felt John shrug, and then John's arms tightened around him, as if he were saying without words that at least Sherlock was alive. Suddenly needing to prove that point, Sherlock sat up, pulling away from John, even though a large part of him wanted to stay where he was.

John gave him a long look, as if to ensure for himself that Sherlock was okay. From the expression on John's face, Sherlock assumed he looked anything but. However, John left him his dignity and didn't hug him again. "I should have shot her right away," John said. "I'm sorry I didn't. I can see I have some social conditioning I'll need to get past. I don't like the idea of killing a woman."

Sherlock didn't think John would hesitate next time.

Dean stretched out some kinks, then said, "I'm gonna go down and see if Cas needs any help." He turned toward the stairs, and then turned back. "By the way, what was all that bullshit you were talking about with her?"

"It was hardly bullshit. It was the truth," Sherlock said indignantly.

"What I heard of it sounded like bullshit. But it worked, so good job." He turned to John, "I need the knife back."

John handed it over.

Dean held it in his hand, the gun still in the small of his back, and he opened the door and headed downstairs.

Sherlock wiped his mouth and saw blood on his fingers. He panicked for a moment until he realized it was from before. Apparently Cas hadn't cleaned him up. "That was exceedingly unpleasant."

John barked out an unhappy laugh. "That was the worst thing I've ever seen, and I--"

"Invaded Afghanistan, yes, I remember," Sherlock finished for him. He inched back until he was leaning against a wall.

"Still want to stay?" John asked.

It was a reasonable question. Sherlock searched John's face, but didn't see anything there that spoke of John's desire to go home. Rather it was full of worry for Sherlock, for his tendency to leap before he looked. This new career might actually purge Sherlock of that habit. Unlikely but possible. Certainly he would be more wary of witches in the future.

"Yes." He watched John to see what his reaction would be. He found himself adding, "But only if you want to." After what had happened today, he wouldn't keep John here just to satisfy his own unquenchable thirst for something new. It could as easily have been John who'd fallen prey to a witch, being destroyed inside by some unforeseen horror.

"As if I'd leave you here alone," John said with a wry and tired smile. "You'd be dead in a week."

"Probably true," Sherlock said. "I reluctantly admit that I am woefully unprepared for this lifestyle." But he'd learn. He'd learn everything there was to know. "But that's not what I meant. I meant if you want to go back to London, I'd go with you." He wouldn't be happy about it, but he'd go. What he wouldn't allow was for an ocean to separate him from John.

John reached up and tugged at one of Sherlock's curls, as if it was a blonde ringlet. Sherlock tried to be annoyed, but he still, if he were being honest, wanted to curl up in John's lap just like a little girl, so he allowed it.

"We'll stay a little longer," John said. "And then we'll see."

Sherlock nodded, largely relieved that John was as addicted to danger as he was, as Sherlock wanted to stay and learn and be endlessly captivated by things new and terrible. But he couldn't quite ignore that small part of him that felt a flash of fear at the memory of throwing up bees and feeling them swarm and sting inside his body. He found himself leaning toward John, and John put his arms around him and hugged him close. "Jesus, Sherlock," John said quietly. "Try not to do that again."

The door to the basement slammed open. "Cas found out what he needed to know, and kept them from finding what they needed to know, so score one for the good guys. And if you guys are done hugging like little girls, we should blow this joint before someone calls the cops."

"What about her?" John asked, letting go of Sherlock, standing, and putting out a hand to assist Sherlock in rising.

Sherlock made a point of not looking at the blood on the floor that had over a dozen dead bees in it. He swallowed hard.

"And I need to check to make sure no one is alive, or in need of medical care," John added.

Dean gave John a look that said plainly what he thought of that idea.

"Dean," John said carefully, "I would understand if you wanted to be well rid of me and Sherlock, but you have to know now, that if you keep us on, I will never leave a place where there might be someone in need of care I could provide. I won't do it."

"You'll end up arrested one day," Dean said.

"Then I end up arrested. I'd rather be arrested than think I could have helped someone and didn't."

Dean let out a long, put-upon sigh, but Sherlock could see the respect for John in his eyes. "Okay." He gestured at them to 'come-on'.

It didn't take long to find that no one remained alive. It was even disheartening for Sherlock, but that might have been because he had hoped there might be someone alive for John to help.

By the time they got back into the main room, the witch was gone.

"Fuck," Dean said.

Sherlock agreed entirely.

Apparently John did, too, because he handed his hex bag over to Sherlock. "Keep this one."

Sherlock intended to.

"Let's go," Dean commanded, and this time neither John nor Sherlock argued.

*****

Dean went out drinking and for sex. Sherlock and John went directly to their hotel room. Sherlock, for once, wasn't feeling an end-of-case letdown. In fact, he was looking forward to some peace and quiet.

While John was in the shower, Sherlock paced the room at first, checking his face in the mirror occasionally, opening his mouth, still half afraid bees would crawl out. In the heyday of his drug habit, he'd had hallucinations like this, but nothing had come close to the reality. He wasn't looking forward to the nightmares.

He got out his phone.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
IN RETROSPECT, YOUR WARNING TO AVOID WITCHES WAS A SOUND ONE.  
SH

He hit send, and Sherlock listened to John moving around in the shower, breaking into occasional bursts of song quickly shut off as if aware Sherlock was listening, which he was. John didn't have a terrible voice, and Sherlock wouldn't have minded listening. It was distracting. His phone chimed.

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
I ABHOR WITCHES. I ADVISE HEX BAGS AT ALL TIMES. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE? I WILL PHONE JOHN IF YOU DO NOT RESPOND.  
MH

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
I AM FINE. I HAD THE NECESSARY ASSISTANCE WITH ME. THERE IS NO NEED TO PHONE JOHN.  
SH

Sherlock heard John's phone chime despite his response, and he rolled his eyes at this childish display of Mycroft's. His phone chirped a minute later.

TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES  
THERE IS WORSE OUT THERE. COME HOME.  
MH

That gave Sherlock pause. Clearly Mycroft knew of which he spoke. But leaving now would feel like defeat, a dog surrendering with his tail between his legs. It crossed his mind to wonder how Dean had done this for his entire life, and he reluctantly recognized that Dean probably had a great deal to teach him and John.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
ABSOLUTELY NOT.  
SH.

After hitting send, Sherlock put his phone down, and paced the room a few more times. Finally he heard the water turn off, John now humming softly under his breath as he puttered around the bathroom. "Shower's ready for you," John called. He had offered the first shower, but Sherlock anticipated staying in there for a very long time, so had declined the offer.

He started unbuttoning his shirt, kicking his shoes off. The thought of steaming hot water cleansing him of the evening's activities sounded like heaven. Pushing the bathroom door open, he ignored John standing there wrapped in a towel, brushing his teeth. He dropped his trousers and pants, and stepped out of them and into the tub, shutting the shower curtain.

The water was hot with a surprisingly heavy flow, and Sherlock opened his mouth and let the water pour in, spitting it out when it felt full. If he could, he would let it spray down his throat, into his esophagus, into his stomach and intestines.

He scrubbed himself down, and then stood there, eyes closed, until he heard John call him. "Sherlock? Are you all right?"

Sherlock shut the water off. "Fine."

There was a pause in the air as if John wasn't sure he agreed, but then he heard John settle into one of the beds. The one on the left, closest to the door.

Sherlock dried off with a barely adequate towel, wrapped it around his waist, and brushed his teeth. He entered the main room and rooted through his bag for his pajamas.

"Why's Mycroft texting me about how you are?" John asked.

"I don't think he believed me when I told him I was fine."

"Hmm."

Sherlock glanced at John, but for all intents and purposes, John appeared to be reading. Sherlock stepped into his pajama pants and put on a t-shirt. He checked his own phone but there were no messages. Sherlock eyed his bed, and found himself pacing again.

"Sleep here tonight," John said, patting his bed.

Sherlock spun and faced him. "Excuse me?"

"I know I'm going to have nightmares about you, and I'd just as soon have you close. Don't worry, I'm not making a pass."

His body moved before Sherlock could even phrase an answer, and he found himself slipping into bed next to John, glad of his presence and heat.

"Thank you," John said, even though Sherlock half suspected he was doing this entirely for Sherlock. Sherlock would never have asked. To be truthful, it wouldn't have even occurred to him.

"Hex bag?" John asked.

"Right here," Sherlock said, pointing to the bags on the night stand. He'd reassembled the one he'd taken apart earlier. "Did you salt the door and window?"

"Yup."

Sherlock lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Come this way," John cajoled him, encouraging him to roll in John's direction, facing him.

Sherlock rolled, not sure what to expect.

"No, here." John was now pulling at him.

Sherlock allowed himself to be manipulated, trusting that John, in this particular instance, knew better the machinations of comfort, and soon he found himself with his head on John's chest, and John's hand softly carding through his hair.

"Perfect," John said.

Sherlock agreed, and he closed his eyes and thought of nothing but John.

*****

He woke up early; it was still dark outside, but through the flimsy curtains Sherlock could see dawn fast approaching. He was surprised he'd slept as long as he had. He was still curled around John, or rather, they were curled around each other, but John didn't stir as Sherlock got out of bed.

Sherlock plugged in his laptop and waited for it to warm up. He thought of brewing some tea, but the hotel supplies were woefully inadequate. He sat down in front of the laptop; now that he'd read all the books Dean had with him, Sherlock needed more information.

He found a multitude of sites that he dismissed immediately as trite and new age. A site called Ghostfacers seemed somewhat legitimate and even spoke of Dean and Sam Winchester. Out of curiosity, Sherlock typed in Dean Winchester in the Google toolbar. His eyebrows rose when he saw over four million responses. He scrolled down the entries, his eyebrows rising even higher.

*****

At breakfast, several hours later, Sherlock waited until Dean was lulled into a sense of security, before asking, "Fanfiction? Explain please."

Dean coughed around a sip of coffee he'd just breathed in. "What?"

"Fanfiction?" John asked.

"Apparently--" Sherlock started.

"Shut the fuck up," Dean demanded.

"Dean and Sam, and Dean and Castiel, and sometimes Dean and--"

"I'm serious," Dean said in a deadly tone. "Shut up."

"What are you talking about?" John said, looking perplexed.

Sherlock handed him a story he'd printed out in the front office. Dean was pregnant in it.

John scanned it. "I don't understand. What is this?"

"It's a story where Dean and Sam have sex, and Sam gets Dean pregnant,"  
Sherlock explained, enjoying himself so much.

"You have sex with your brother?" John asked, appalled.

Dean slapped a hand over his face. "Could you say that any louder?"

"Sorry," John said, his shoulders hunched, looking around the diner, chagrined. "Sorry, but it isn't true, is it?"

"No, it's not true," Dean snapped. "Jesus H. Christ. None of it's true. It's just a bunch of crazy people on the internet."

"Writing stories about you," Sherlock pointed out.

"I don't want to talk about it," Dean said.

"Even the tentacles?" Sherlock asked innocently. "It would seem that you would want to talk about them."

Dean made an interesting sound composed of outrage, embarrassment, and the intent to murder, before getting up and stalking out of the diner.

Sherlock beamed.

The End

1


	3. In which Dean decides Sherlock might, possibly, be useful, but only because Bobby says so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whereupon Sherlock doesn't want anything enough to sell his soul, and Dean finally decides that Sherlock, maybe, isn't completely useless, but only because Bobby says so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a transition chapter for the next chapter, and more like a day in the life of Sherlock's new adventure. And yes, I know, still gen. There will be slash ahead, I promise.
> 
> Thanks to Annie and Ruth for the very quick turnaround betas. You guys are awesome!!

  
"Yeah, Bobby, what's up?" Dean said into his phone.  

_"Who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?"_ Bobby growled into the phone.

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it, then he glanced in his rear view mirror where the man in question sat devouring Dean's dad's journal for about the thousandth time.  Dean kept grabbing it away from him, but then Dean would turn around and Sherlock would be reading it again.

"Some jerk I picked up along the way," Dean told Bobby, phone back to his ear, smirking at the frown that crossed Sherlock's face, the great detective no doubt picking up that Dean was talking about him.  
  
Dean glanced at John Watson, who was fighting back a grin.  Dean liked John, would have been glad to have him as a regular partner on a permanent basis.  Unfortunately, they came as a pair.  John _almost_ made it worthwhile to have to put up with Sherlock.  

_"Well, you wanna explain to me why packages for him are coming to my house in care of me when I've never heard of the guy?"_

"What?  What kind of packages?"  And how the hell did Sherlock know about Bobby, let alone where he lived?  

_"Two big crates,"_ Bobby answered.

"What's in 'em?" Dean asked.

_"Here's the kicker.  The crates were delivered by two men in dark suits, but because the guy they're addressed to isn't here, they're sitting out in front of the entrance to the junk yard in a black SUV.  They're waiting for this Sherlock idjit to show up before they'll leave 'em."_

"What the fuck did you send to Bobby?" Dean asked over his shoulder to Sherlock, who was now taking a keen interest in Dean's side of the conversation.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, leaning up until his elbows were on the top of the front seat.  "What does it look like?"

"Two crates."

"How extraordinary," Sherlock said, looking very pleased.  Then, just as fast, the smile slid off his face.  "Mycroft."  He flopped back against the seat, now apparently equally annoyed.

John shifted.  "You think Mycroft sent something for you to someone you don't even know?"  He blew out a soft breath.  "Your brother is very scary."

"How far are we from this Bobby's place?  Where does he live?"  Sherlock was already grabbing for the map that was always on the seat next to him.  Dean was sure he slept with the damn thing.

"He lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota," Dean said.  To Bobby, he added, "We're on our way."  He hung up.

"Where are we now?" Sherlock asked, his eyes devouring the map, flipping it from one side to the other.

Dean rolled his eyes, asking John, "How does he never know where he is?  Can't he read signs?"

"Sherlock needs to walk his territory," John said.  "All this driving around leaves him befuddled."

"I’m not befuddled," Sherlock complained.  "I've never been befuddled a day in my life."

"When you were puking bees," Dean countered, "I'm guessing you were befuddled."

Sherlock shot him a look that made Dean feel sort of bad for bringing it up, but he got over it pretty quick.

"City?  State?" Sherlock demanded, sounding annoyed that people weren't immediately attending to his needs.

Honestly, Dean had no idea where John had dug this guy up.  It was clear that John liked him.  A lot.  Like the sun and moon rose because of the guy.  No accounting for taste, especially as Sherlock was clueless about John's feelings.  Like retarded clueless.  "We're outside of Knoxville, Tennessee."

Sherlock studied the map for a long while, flipping it over a few more times checking the listing of cities and states and then eagerly matching up numbers and letters on the map's grid.  His cry of success was immediately aborted.  "I hate this country," Sherlock groused.  "It's entirely too large."  He slammed the map down onto the seat next to him, crossed his arms over his chest and commenced to sulk.

Dean could see John smirking, even as his eyes took a walk all over Sherlock.  I guess if tall and skinny and rude did it for you, Sherlock was your guy.  Dean personally liked breasts, although lately he was leaning towards guys in tan raincoats which was a new sort of weird for Dean.  Not that he hadn't taken a walk or two on the wild side.  Any wild side.  All wild sides.  It wasn't the guy thing, as much as it was the angel thing, or the non-human thing.  Mostly the angel thing.

After that whole amusing but very weird night at the whorehouse with Castiel freaking out with Chastity, Dean still wasn't convinced that Castiel did sex.  Would do sex with Dean.  On the other hand, sometimes Dean thought that Castiel would do anything Dean asked, which sort of wigged Dean out because he wanted Castiel to want sex, too, on his own behalf, not just because Dean wanted it.  But then Dean would look at Castiel, and he seemed so alien, so not human, and definitely not someone Dean should be trying to seduce into his bed and give a blow job to.  
  
Especially because Dean wanted Cas around the next morning, all the next mornings, and that was also new territory.  Dean hadn't even considered it since Cassie and what a clusterfuck that had turned into.  At least Castiel knew what he did for a living which was a huge plus.  Not to mention that he knew Dean better than anyone ever had, including Sam. 

As if conjured, Castiel suddenly appeared in the back seat next to Sherlock.  Sherlock did his usual concentrated stare as if he thought if he only looked long and hard enough, he'd figure out how Castiel was able to pop in and out.  Angel of the Lord was not cutting it for Sherlock.

"Hey," Dean said.  "What's up?"

"You were thinking of me," Castiel said. 

Dean ordered himself not to redden, because he was in a world of hurt if Castiel was reading his mind these days.  "You reading my mind again?  I told you not to do that."

"No," Castiel said.  "I told you I would not, but I could sense that your thoughts were of me.  They were very loud."

Dean could believe that; they felt loud in his head.  "But you don't know what I was thinking?"

Sherlock was paying close attention now, no doubt sensing a mystery to solve.

"No."

"Okay, then." Dean guessed he could live with that.  "We have to go to Bobby's."

"Could you get us there faster?" Sherlock asked Castiel, eyes narrowed as if _any_ answer Castiel gave would be a vital clue.

"Yes," Castiel said.  
  
Dean kept driving, grinning.  Sherlock, being fairly literal himself, hadn't quite caught on that there was no one more literal than Castiel.

John had half turned in his seat, openly smirking at Sherlock.  

"What?" Sherlock snapped at him.  To Castiel, he said, "Well?"

"Well what?" Castiel asked.

"Get us there faster," Sherlock demanded.

"Don't push my angel around," Dean groused.

"Do you wish to get there faster?" Castiel asked Dean which got an eye roll from Sherlock coupled with a glare as if he knew Dean might say no just to be a pain in his ass

Dean was tempted.  They weren't really in a hurry, but the thought of Sherlock sitting back there sulking for the rest of the trip made him say, "Sure, that would be great."

And then they were there, as if Castiel had picked up the car like a Monopoly game piece, and moved it from Water Works to Go.

"Unbelievable," John said, looking wide-eyed at Castiel.  "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Castiel said, opening the door and getting out.  

Dean pushed open his door as well, watching as a black SUV drove up behind them.  How the hell they knew they'd arrived via Angel Express was beyond Dean.  He glanced up at the roof line fully expecting cameras.  This Mycroft guy was one scary ass dude.

Sherlock's phone chirped, as it tended to do incessantly, and Dean watched him as he checked his message.  Looking annoyed, Sherlock said to John, "Mycroft."  Then, he sniped at the phone, "Obviously."

Dean grabbed the phone and looked down at the message.   
  
I SEE YOU HAVE ARRIVED. MH

Then it chimed a new text:

PLEASE GIVE THE PHONE BACK TO SHERLOCK.  MH

Dean dropped the phone like it was on fire.  "What the fuck?"  He glanced around, one hand on the knife he always carried with him.

Sherlock picked it up, glanced at the message.  "Ignore him.  I always do."

A tall black man in a dark suit approached Sherlock.  "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," he said.  A clipboard was thrust in his direction.  Sherlock searched in his coat, unsuccessfully, for a pen.  "John, do-" 

Bobby interrupted his request by handing him a pen.  "I want to know what's in 'em," he said grouchily.  "So sign for the damn things."

The two crates were brought into the living room, and then the men got back in their SUV and drove away.

"Okay," Dean said, "that was sort of weird, right?"

Bobby handed Sherlock a crowbar.  One of the crates was clearly marked: Open first.  Sherlock stared at both crates, gaze jumping from one to the other and back.

"What's stopping you?" Bobby asked.  "Open that one."

"It's never that simple when it comes to Sherlock and Mycroft," John offered.  "And I'm John Watson, by the way."

"Bobby Singer, and what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means Sherlock doesn't want to do what Mycroft wants him to.  So he's trying to decide which box Mycroft actually wants him to open first.  It seems obvious it's the one labeled that way, but perhaps Mycroft was banking on Sherlock being contrary, and he really wants Sherlock to open the other one first."  John rolled his eyes, grabbed the crowbar from Sherlock, and opened the labeled crate.

"John!" Sherlock complained.

"We were getting old.  And I'm hungry and thirsty."  He peered over Sherlock's shoulder.  "They're books."

Sherlock picked two of them up and viewed them.  

"Oh, yeah, I don't think so," Dean said, and he snatched them away.

"Hey," Sherlock snarled.  "Those are mine."  He moved protectively in front of the crate.

"There's a note here from Mycroft," John said.  "It's for Dean."  He handed it over.

Dean opened it cautiously and read out loud:  
  
 _If my brother is to hunt with you, he must be prepared for the pandemonium that surrounds the Winchester Family.  I realize this will seem like the grossest invasion of privacy, so consider the contents of the other crate as an apology of sorts.  Mycroft Holmes._

Sherlock seized the moment to steal the two books back.  "The Woman in White?" he said.  "Why would I want to read such drivel?"

"They are the Winchester Gospels," Castiel said.  

Dean had almost forgotten Castiel was there, except that he never really forgot.  Castiel emitted some sort of force, like a humming or something, that told Dean he was nearby and, most especially, when he was not.  Dean liked it, liked the feel of it.  It was like a warm blanket on a cold night, although he'd rather have his nails pried off than admit it.

Dean risked a look at Castiel, to find Castiel gazing at him, a small smile on his lips.  Damn it.  "I told you, no reading my mind," he hissed quietly.

"I find your presence comforting, too, Dean," Castiel said softly.

"What do you mean, the Winchester Gospels?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.  

John had picked up a couple of the books himself and was leafing through them.  "This is about Dean and Sam, that's your brother, right?  These books are about you."

"Yes, they're about us!" Dean griped, trying unsuccessfully to get the books back from Sherlock.  "Everything about us.  Our entire life for the past six years, and none of it is any of your fucking business!"

"Did you write them?" John asked, looking very confused.  "As a way to make some additional income?"

"No," Cas said.  "A prophet of the Lord wrote them.  But he did not realize he was writing about Dean and Sam, he thought he was writing original fiction and had the books published.  But they are Holy Scripture."

Sherlock snorted.  "These are the books that caused all those ridiculous stories to be written about you."

"Do not mock what you do not understand," Castiel said sternly, his face harsh, and the lights in the room flickered in counterpoint. Sherlock took a step back, a flash of fear on his face, followed immediately by annoyance.  Castiel continued, saying, "Perhaps you _should_ read those books so you will understand how indebted you are."

"Cas!" Dean complained.

"And perhaps you should open the other crate," Cas suggested to him.

Bobby snatched the crowbar from Sherlock and handed it to Dean.  With a glower at the world at large, including Castiel, Dean opened the second crate.  "Holy shit," Dean said.  "Bobby."

Bobby joined him and they looked down, speechless, at the contents of the crate.  A second Colt pistol lay there, along with several boxes of ammunition.  Dean saw a glint of metal and he caught his breath as he picked up the gun to move it out of the way.  It was another demon knife.  "How the hell did he get this stuff?"  Dean turned on Castiel.  "And why the hell didn't you know there was someone out there who could have helped us?"

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel said somberly.  "I must admit it never crossed my mind to look."  His expression was so apologetic he looked like a hound dog.

Fuck.  Dean could never stay mad at Castiel when he looked like that.  "Yeah, well, I guess we won anyway.  Sort of."  He sat on the floor and pulled out the ammunition to see if there was anything else.  "Hey, Bobby, weren't you looking for these books?"  He pulled out two leather bound books and handed them over.

"Yeah," Bobby said, looking completely freaked out.  "Was your brother monitoring my computer activity?"

"Probably," Sherlock said, but he had his nose buried in the first book.  "These are very badly written, you know."

"Fuck you," Dean said.  "Tell it to someone who cares."

Sherlock's lips tightened and his eyes glinted dangerously in Dean's direction.  But after a quick glance at Castiel, he kept his mouth shut.  He grabbed what looked to be the first three in the series and moved into the living room where he lay down on the couch, taking up the whole damn thing.

Dean slowly counted to ten.  

"Sorry," John said softly.  "Will it help to read those books?  Will it help us understand more?  Or is it too much?  I'll take those off him, and give them back to you if you want."

Looking down at the pistol and knife and boxes of ammunition, and seeing Bobby enthralled in the new books despite his computer stalker, Dean tried to decide if it was an even trade for letting someone rifle through the worst years of Dean's life.  Not all of it was bad, but the stuff that was bad, was bad on an epic scale. 

"If he says one thing about how stupid we were, or how he could have done it better, I'll kill him," Dean said.  "He wasn't there.  He didn't live it, so he has no fucking idea."

"Got it," John said.  "I'll gag him if I have to."

John went a long way toward Dean's anger dissipating.  He let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing.  "Whatever," he finally said.  He glanced at Castiel, and then walked out the front door.  He needed to find a car to destroy.  Or an angel to annoy.  Castiel followed him out and that worked for Dean.

* * *

Sherlock put down the book, glancing at the title: _In My Time of Dying_.  It was difficult to believe that these stories were true.  This was the twenty-third book he'd read, and each one seemed more preposterous than the one before it.

"His father sold his soul to save Dean?" he asked Bobby.

John glanced up, but then went back to reading _Something Wicked_.  Other than John, the only other person present was Bobby.  Dean and Castiel had gone outside, presumably, Sherlock thought, for Dean to hit something other than him.  While Sherlock was quite skilled in the martial arts, somehow he thought, uncomfortably, that Dean would emerge triumphant in a fight between the two of them.  He would, no doubt, fight dirty, and the type of dirty fighting one learns after years of dealing with supernatural creatures was no doubt superb.  Not to mention that Castiel would be on Dean's side and, well, regardless of what sort of creature Castiel was, Sherlock had no hope of walking away unscathed.  

"Bobby?" Sherlock asked, after failing to get his attention the first time around.

"What?" Bobby growled, nose deep in one of the books Mycroft had provided.  And why had Mycroft never asked Sherlock to assist in demon-hunting?  It was a question that begged a face-to-face argument and seeing that they were on separate sides of the ocean, it would have to be postponed.

"Am I seriously expected to believe that Dean's father actually sold his soul to save Dean?"

John waved his book, saying, "If he did, it was the only thing he ever did for Dean."

"You weren't there," Bobby said to John.

"I understand something awful happened to him, but there are ways to do things, even while training your children to deal with the worse sort of evil. It seems as if he consistently chose the harshest."  
  
Sherlock noticed that Bobby didn't argue, even if his face scrunched up as if he wanted to.  So, while he and John Winchester had been friends, he hadn't agreed as to how John had chosen to raise his sons.

"Dean knew his father was possessed because the man said something nice to him," John pointed out as if people were arguing with him.

"His soul?" Sherlock persisted.

"Yes," was all Bobby said.

"He sold his soul?  There are no such things as souls," Sherlock scoffed, "let alone an item you could sell to get something else.  The whole premise is ludicrous."

"Shut the hell up," Bobby said in a quiet but vicious voice.  "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"So tell me," Sherlock insisted, frustrated at the paucity of facts regarding everything to do with Dean Winchester and demon hunters.  There were no scientific studies, no uniform behavior, no rules, at all, as far as Sherlock could tell.  The entire thing was a futile exercise in grasping at straws.  How were they all still alive?  That was the most inconceivable fact.

"No," Bobby said, "and you want to know why?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock said in his most condescending tone.

John put his book down and shot him a look.

"It's because this is fun for you.  Because you think all of this is an adventure, like some crazy-assed vacation."  Bobby jabbed a finger at the books Sherlock and John were reading.  "You are completely missing the point of those books.  They're not about how to be a demon hunter.  They're about how to hang on to your life and your sanity in a world filled with things that'd just as soon see you dead and crazy.

"And until you get that," Bobby continued, "until you get that almost every demon hunter is in the profession because someone they loved was gutted, or eaten, or fucking possessed by something supernatural, and that most of us have watched too many of the people we care about killed right in front of us because they looked left when they should have looked right, I ain't telling you jack shit about souls or anything else."

"I love talking about souls," a new voice said.  "They're my favorite subject!"

Sherlock jerked his head up to find himself staring at a man about forty-five years of age, approximately five feet ten and twelve and a half stone, dark hair with a receding hairline, attractive, black suit, red shirt, black tie.  He hadn't been there a moment ago, so he was another being like Castiel with the ability to transport himself.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked him.

"Crowley," the man said.  "Who are you?  And when did Team Free Will pick up a British contingent?"  Then, "Hey, where did you get a whole set?"  He moved over to the pile of books.  "I'm still missing three volumes.  I love the parts about me."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean demanded from the doorway.

Perhaps not an ally then, Sherlock noted.

"I was about to ask the same thing," Bobby snapped.

"Is that anyway to talk after you've had your tongue in my mouth?" Crowley responded.

Sherlock's eyebrows went up and he eyed Bobby.

"You, shut up," Bobby said to Sherlock, "and I didn't have my tongue in your mouth, so stop saying that."

Crowley pulled out his phone and showed Sherlock the picture.

"You still have that?" Dean asked, grabbing Crowley's phone from him and quickly deleting it.

Crowley rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone back where the picture still showed despite Dean deleting it.  "Dean, play with your own toys.  And speaking of that, where's your boyfriend?"

Dean took a threatening step toward Crowley and Crowley put his hand up, his face taking on a sudden menacing look.  "Don't."

Dean stopped, but only to crouch down by the crate and start to load the new pistol Mycroft had included in his crate.

"Oh, Dean," Crowley said.  "I thought we were beyond this.  And who's giving you new toys?"  He sounded petulant.

Dean ignored him until the gun was loaded, then he stood up and held it by his side.  "What the fuck do you want, Crowley?"

"I heard someone talking about souls, and seeing as you're all some of my best customers, I thought I'd stop by."

"I don't believe in souls," Sherlock scoffed.

"Then you won't mind if I take yours," Crowley said with a smile.  "I'll give you anything you want."

"You're not taking anyone's soul," Dean snapped.  "Not while I'm standing right here."

Crowley put his hand up, as if preparing to snap his fingers.  "I could change that.  I hear it's quite nice in Bolivia this time of year."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Castiel warned, suddenly standing next to Dean.

Crowley rolled his eyes.  "Spoil sport."  He lowered his hand and walked closer to Sherlock.  "There must be something you want."

"Not particularly."

"Money."  
  
"No."

"Power."

Sherlock was amused by the conversation.  "No.  The last thing I want is to be like my brother."

"Fame."

"No."

Crowley pursed his lips, his index finger tapping his chin in consideration.  "Knowledge?"

"Unnecessary," Sherlock said.  "The fun is in the deducing."

"Love."

"No."

Crowley scowled.  "Come on.  Everyone wants love."

"I already have John.  He's all I need."

Crowley took a quick look at John, whose eyebrows were high on his forehead.  Crowley smiled.  "Sex."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock huffed.  
  
"I don't think it's irrelevant," John said, softly but huffily.

"Me either," Dean agreed, more emphatically.

Sherlock ignored the incredulous look Dean was shooting him.  From what he'd read so far, Dean thought much too much about sex.  He'd be a good deal more effective if he didn't waste so much time and energy on the gratuitous needs of his body and learned to apply his brain more.

"Someone dead you'd like back alive?" Crowley asked.

"No.  Boring."

"Non-stop serial murders to solve?"

"I have that now," Sherlock said, lifting the book he was reading in Crowley's direction.  "Ah," he said.  "Perhaps some way I can transport myself and anyone with me, instantly, to somewhere else.  That might interest me."

Crowley shook his head apologetically.  "Can't mess with physics that much, pet.  No can do."

"Okay, he said no," Dean said.  "So get out of here."

"You might want to remember who I am, Winchester," Crowley said in a truly threatening tone.  "And show me more respect."

Castiel stood suddenly between Crowley and Dean.  "And you might want to remember who I am."

Crowley shrugged and backed up a step.  "Can't say this has been lovely."  To Sherlock he added, "I'll be watching you.  When you think of something, let me know."  With that he snapped his fingers and was gone.

"How do you both do that?" Sherlock demanded.  "That should not be possible.  And who or what was that?"

"Demon," Dean said.  "King of Hell."

Sherlock stared at Dean.  "Excuse me?"

"You heard me.  Not my fault you don't like the answer."  With that he tugged on Castiel's coat.  "Let's go get some dinner.  Bobby, you want anything in particular?"

"No burgers," Bobby said.  "And get some beer.  You're already drinking me out of house and home."

"John," Dean asked, "You wanna go?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks," John said.

Sherlock smirked at Dean.

Dean gave Sherlock the finger.

"Very mature," Sherlock said to Dean.

John's eyebrows went up again. "Excuse me?  You're giving someone a hard time for not being mature?  Pot? Meet kettle."

Dean snickered and left with Castiel.

"You're supposed to be on my side," Sherlock told John, offended.

"I am," John said firmly, "which is why I truly believe I need to point out when you're barking mad.  Now go back to your book."

Sherlock pouted when he heard Bobby snicker, too.  He glared at John, but then had to grin when he saw John's affectionate smile.  While something in him wasn't crazy about how much Dean seemed to like John and vice versa, he really did know that John liked him best.  

All three of them sat in silence for some time, until finally Bobby said, "Read _Crossroad Blues_."

Sherlock moved to the crate and dug the book out.  "Why?"

"It explains about the selling the soul stuff," Bobby explained.

"I'd rather you explained it."

"And I already told you I ain't telling you shit."

"Bobby," John said.  "I'd actually like to understand it better.  Will you explain it to me?"

Bobby scowled at John, and Sherlock knew instantly that the man would capitulate.  No one could hold out from John when he was this sincere.  He held back a victorious grin; John wouldn't appreciate it.

"Look," Bobby started, "I know it's hard to believe, but humans do have souls, and they're as real as anything else."

Sherlock reared back at his words in disbelief.  "It's preposterous.  These books discuss souls as if they're a tin of biscuits sitting on a Tesco shelf ready to be bought or bartered."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Do you disagree?" Sherlock demanded from John.  "Do you believe in souls?"

"Yeah, I do.  There are a lot of words for it, but I've seen too many people dying who, in the moment of death, became something drastically less than what had been there before, even though the same body was still there.  Something leaves.  I don't know if it's a soul, but I think it's what people call a soul.  And don't say something sarcastic, Sherlock," John snapped, no doubt in response to Sherlock's expression of doubt.  "Even with your insane life, I bet I've sat at the bedside of many more dying people than you."

"And you believe in spirits, too," Bobby said, more of a statement than a question.

John nodded.  "I've seen some unexplainable things in Afghanistan.  As I told Dean before, that land has been ravaged by dozens of wars, and all that violent death leaves behind a residue."

"I just don't--"

Bobby interrupted Sherlock.  "It wasn't but a few days ago you'd never have believed angry spirits, or vampires, or witches, or all the ghoulies that go bump in the night existed, so maybe you could try to open your mind, and admit that there's a shitload of other stuff you don't know.  People have been selling their damn souls as long as there's been demons to take them, and they'll keep selling them because they're damn idjits."

"Does that include you, Bobby?" Dean asked, bags of takeout food in his arms.

"Yes, that includes me, and you, and your dad."

"You sold your soul?" John asked Dean in surprise.  "And you?" he asked of Bobby.  "How?  Why?  And what does that mean?"

"They both got their souls back," Castiel said.  "But Dean did go to hell for forty years.  I went into hell to find him and brought him and his soul back.  Bobby tricked Crowley into giving him his soul back."  He put the bags he'd been carrying on the table next to Dean's bags.  There was little expression on his face, as if he'd been talking about the weather and not something so nonsensical.  

Dean looked annoyed that all this information was being shared, but Sherlock dismissed his annoyance as irrelevant.  They'd find it all out in the books regardless.  It still seemed ludicrous to him.  Souls?  Hell?  Forty years in hell?  Sherlock heard the words but they were as ridiculous as the words of a toddler, making noises up while they played with their food.

On the other hand, Bobby had a point.  He would do well to remember that he, as much as he hated to admit it, had much to learn.  He thought he'd rather learn it from Bobby than either Dean or Castiel.  Dean had barely taken his brain out for a test drive, and Castiel was too focused on Dean.

They all gathered around the table, Bobby grabbing some plates, and all of them helping themselves to an assortment of Chinese food.

"Eat," John insisted, handing Sherlock an empty plate.

Sighing, Sherlock took the plate and put a small helping of several items on his plate.  He went back to where he was sitting and picked up _Crossroad Blues._

Dean frowned but then ignored him which suited Sherlock fine.

* * *

At around midnight, after everyone had gone to bed, Sherlock put aside the book he was reading, _Born Under a Bad Sign._   Unlike many of the others, he'd found the subject matter in this book fascinating.  Dean's brother, Sam, had had a demon inside of him; one of those smoky creatures that had taken over the people at the nursing home.  Sam had been taken by one and survived it.  Granted, he'd been responsible for several deaths and he'd tried to kill Dean, but Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to experience that.   
  
Sherlock was sure with his intellect he'd be in more control than Sam had been.  And it would help him understand demons so much more to experience one of them firsthand.  To understand what drove them, what was important, how they could be subverted.  

It put him in mind of the cabbie and the pill he'd come so close to swallowing.  He'd felt so alive in that moment, his entire body vibrating with adrenalin.  On the other hand, it would have been quite an inelegant way to die, so he was grateful John had shot the cabbie.  But this time, it would be just him and a demon, inside his head, using his ultimate weapon against something foreign and deadly.  Just the thought of it made Sherlock lightheaded with anticipation.

He was sure John would disapprove.  Strongly disapprove.  He'd get that look on his face that said that Sherlock had disappointed him.  Sherlock acted as if he didn't care, but he hated that look.

Sighing, he decided he was quite finished with the Winchester Gospels.  They were badly written and featured too many emotional outbursts to be of much use.  There were about five paragraphs of helpful information in each of them regarding the specifics of how to kill the particular creature they were chasing.

Why waste his time on them when Bobby had an extensive library filled with facts that would be far more helpful?  He got up and moved to the closest bookshelf, picking up a book at random.  He flipped it open and started to read.

* * *

"Were you up all night?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock said, turning a page.

"Sherlock," John said.  "Were you up all night?"

Sherlock forced his eyes up to meet John's.  "Yes, thank you, I'd love some tea."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head, but moved into the kitchen.

Sherlock went back to his book.  When he came to a section, he paused, and then read it again.  He pulled his phone out.

THOSE DEATHS ON THE COAST OF IRELAND.  HAVE YOU CONSIDERED FOMORIANS?  SH

He glanced around for Bobby.  The older man was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding onto a cuppa as if it alone held him in place.  Dean and Castiel had yet to appear.  "These books on your shelves, is everything in them real?"

Bobby shook his head from side to side in an equivocal gesture.  "More than you'd think.  Some of them just give you ideas of where else to look, but most legends, folklore, monsters, all of that, at the bottom of it, you'll find something real."

Sherlock's phone chimed and he read the message.   
  
INTERESTING.  DOES YOUR SOURCE SAY HOW TO KILL THEM?  MH

He flipped past the page with the etching of a caricature of a demonic man beast.  He ran his finger down the text.  When he found the key phrase he snorted.  "Ridiculous."  He started pushing keys.

YOU MUST SINK THEIR BOATS WHILE AT SEA WITH THEM IN IT.  I SUSPECT THEY PREDATE THE INVENTION OF SCUBA GEAR.  SH

"What's Mycroft want?" John asked.

"There was a case two years ago, before I met you, in Ireland.  Once every three months someone was killed, quite brutally, but what was most odd about them, is that they all had symptoms of the plague."

"I never heard anything about that," John said.  "I'm sure I would have."

"Mycroft buried it.  It was one of the few cases I never could solve.  Since that time there have continued to be four deaths a year."  He wiggled the book in the air.  "Perhaps, now, there will be no more, and it will no longer be a case I was unable to solve."  He smiled, pleased with himself.  "Facts, John.  That's all I need."  He picked up a couple of the alleged Winchester Gospel books.  "That's all they needed.  Most of the trauma in these books is because neither Sam nor Dean had the facts.  The only people who appeared to have any facts at all were the demons, which is why their plans almost came to fruition."

"It's never just the facts, Sherlock," John argued.  "And sometimes the facts can be wrong, or even deadly.  You had facts about Moriarty and they almost got us both killed.  This type of hunting is something that has to involve your gut, too."

"That's based on fact as well, John, just facts that you aren't consciously aware of.  That's all your gut, or intuition, is.  Facts."  Besides, Moriarty had been an aberration.  

"It's about faith," Castiel threw in, having made a sudden appearance.  "About love and faith."

"Oh, please," Sherlock groaned.  "The work is always about facts.  Love and faith don't come into it."

John looked disappointed, and Sherlock had no idea why.  John asked him, "Do you function better or worse since I've become a part of your life?"

"Better, of course."  He could admit that to John. 

"That's love and faith, Sherlock.  And it's real and essential."  John pointed to the books Sherlock had been holding up.  "It's their love for each other as brothers that kept them strong.  Yes, facts are important, but just facts alone only tell a part of the story."

"It's all facts," Sherlock insisted.  "Dean knows facts about Sam, and Sam about Dean, it makes them act in certain ways; how they fight, how they think.  They learn facts about the creature they're fighting, and get sufficient data that allows them to know where the creature will be.  Facts, John.  All of it."

"Facts are part of it," Bobby chimed in, "but too many times you're swimming in the deep end of the pool without any facts, and then it's experience, and keeping a cool head, and depending on other people, that keeps you alive."

"All of which are based on facts.  The knowledge you've gained through your years of being a hunter.  You've come to trust yourself and your skills with the tools of your trade, and you know which people to depend on in which situation because you know them and their skill levels.  It's when you deviate from the facts, when you rely on emotions and faith," Sherlock said scathingly, "that people do things like sell their souls and start apocalypses."

"I think that's a dangerous attitude to have, Sherlock, at least on this battleground," John said.  "These creatures aren't human, they don't think like a human, and you have to have something to call on beyond facts to survive.  Sam and Dean might have been in over their heads sometimes, and you've clearly read many more of the books than I have at this point, but much of it, from what I've seen, is facing your fears, learning what lines you're willing to cross, trying to root out the difference between good and evil, determining how to maintain your sanity in the midst of madness, and I think little of that has to do with facts.  I agree with Castiel on this."

"Agree all you like," Sherlock said, disappointed that he hadn't convinced John, but confident that John would come, in time, to see his point of view.  John was an eminently reasonable fellow, most of the time.  "I shall stick to the facts, if you please."

John studied him for a while, shot what appeared to be an apologetic smile toward Castiel, and then went back to the kitchen, presumably for another cup of tea.

"Sometimes there are no facts," Castiel said.

Sherlock gazed up at him.  "Explain."

"I cannot.  Just understand that you will find yourself, if you continue down this road, in a situation where there are no facts.  All there will be is you, and you won't even know who that is."

Sherlock wasn't foolhardy enough to scoff at the angel, but he came close.  So dramatic, these Americans.  Rather than respond, he chose another book, from another bookcase, and began to read.

* * *

It had been a relatively quiet day, and they were all having dinner, well, all of them but Sherlock who, apparently, didn't eat.  Dean would have stabbed him with the demon knife if John didn't vouch for the guy.  Every time he walked by him, though, Dean had to fight the urge to toss a little holy water his way.  He did mutter _Christo_ , and was almost disappointed he didn't flinch.  And Jesus, it was like he was trying to read every freaking book in Bobby's house.  

Right after dinner, Bobby received a phone call about a local case.  

"Jody says there's something going on in Blood Run.  Three kids have gone missing."

"Sounds like a case for Jody," Dean said.  "Not that I’m not willing to go help look for some kids."

"A witness said something invisible took them.  Just snatched them right off their feet and into the woods.  That whole area up there is an archaeological dig.  Who knows what they dug up?"

Dean made a face but could hardly argue.  "John, you game?"

"Sure," John said, agreeably enough. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, browsing a bookcase.

"There's a case.  Did you want to go?"

"No."

"No?" John asked in surprise.  "You're turning down work?"

Sherlock pulled out a book and turned to John.  "As I already explained, I need more facts.  While it is difficult to say and almost as difficult to believe, I am out of my depth and woefully undereducated.  I have no doubt with Castiel's help that you'll be in no danger."

"You won't get to be a good hunter by reading books," Dean said, although he was secretly thrilled to be leaving Sherlock out of things.  He shot Bobby a look.  "You okay babysitting?"

Bobby rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to answer.

Sherlock shot Dean an unpleasant look and Dean just grinned at him, saying, "Works for me."

"Where is Castiel?" John asked.

"I'll call him once we get to Blood Run," Dean said.  With that, they both walked out of the house and toward Dean's Impala.  Once they were seated, and Dean had started the car and begun to drive out of the salvage yard, Dean said, "You know, I just don't get it."

John snorted.  "You and almost everyone else."

"So what is it?  What's the appeal?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched John make a fist and then stretch out his fingers.  "I know Sherlock's odd, but I'm not exactly wired right myself.  And I'm guessing you're not, either, or you wouldn't like doing this.  I'm sure some hunters feel forced to hunt as it's hard to turn your back on this type of knowledge, but you like it, right?"

"I do.  Parts of it have really sucked, and there've been plenty of times when I was ready to quit, even to lay down and die.  But when there's no bullshit going on like apocalypses and Lucifer trying to break out of hell, or angels having a civil war, when it's just the hunt, yeah, I like it.  I like it a lot."  He grinned suddenly.  "So do you."

John huffed out a short laugh.  "I do.  Sherlock once got me across town at the dead of night because he sent me an e-mail saying to come at once because it was dangerous. I couldn't get there fast enough."

"But you don't need him now," Dean pointed out.  "You could hunt with me, get your jollies that way, and lose him."

"I couldn't do that.  Or, more correctly, I won't do that.  I appreciate your offer, but…" John shook his head.  "You're not the first person who's thought I was mad as a hatter to become his friend, and there's times I'd like to punch him in the nose, and a couple of times I have, but…"  Again, John dropped off, hands spread out as if at a loss for words.

"Are you two together?" Dean really didn't think so, especially after Sherlock's dismissive comment about sex, but what did he know?

"Lord, no," John said.

"But you'd like there to be something," Dean said.

There was a long moment of silence and then John said, "Yes, well, you and Castiel?"

"Touche," Dean said with a laugh.  "Tell me something about Sherlock that will help me even think about liking him."

"Oh, I don't know if you'll ever like him, but you will, in time, understand the utter brilliance of the man.  I've never seen anything like it.  And there's something extraordinary about being found worthy by someone who thinks everyone's, essentially, a poor excuse for a human."

Dean could actually relate to that.  Well, not that Castiel thought anyone was a poor excuse for a human; after all Castiel liked him, and Dean was about as poor an excuse as you could get.  But it was extraordinary to know that Castiel chose to like him anyway.  Really liked him.  "I get that.  I just hope he doesn't get us killed."

"He does take unnecessary risks, and I'll do my best to rein him in," John said.  "I promise.  And if he steps over the line, I won't stop you if you need to punch him in the nose.  He'll be the first to tell you he's a high-functioning sociopath, but he does have some regard for the feelings of others, and he's certainly been able to maintain our friendship enough for me to know he cares about me."  John's lips tightened abruptly, and he turned to look out the window.

Dean got that too.  The frustration of getting just so much but no more.  Sometimes he felt that way about Castiel.  That he'd gotten all he would ever get from the angel, and the thought of that left a lead ball in the pit of his stomach that mocked him for never being enough.  "Hey, when Crowley tempted him with love, he said he had you.  Don't forget that."

"True," John said, glancing at Dean.

"Of course, he also said that sex was irrelevant," Dean had to add. 

"Also true," John said, this time with a little more humor in his voice.  "He puts all of his energy into his mind.  Much as you put most of your energy into your body."  
  
"I do know how to think, you know," Dean pointed out sharply, a little defensively.

"Not saying that.  I simply mean that you have to stay in shape for your job, you work out, probably run to maintain your stamina, you practice fighting, and work with your weapons, right?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

"You also need to eat to fuel all that activity.  So a lot of your energy goes toward maintaining your body.  Sherlock's main tool, as he would say, is his mind, so he spends all his time exercising that.  He thinks too much food makes him tired and slows his mind down."

"And sex?"

John sat there for a minute or so and then finally grinned.  "Yeah, that's just completely cracked."

Dean laughed out loud.  They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Dean said, "I just gotta tell you that there's something about him, the way he talks about hunting, and demons, and whatever, that creeps me out; like he just doesn't get that he could get hurt or that he could get us hurt.  Like he'd almost relish the opportunity to come as close to death as he can."

John didn't say anything in return, but his lips tightened again, and he looked out the window for the remainder of the drive.

When they arrived at their destination, Dean parked the car.  
  
"Why are we doing this at night?" John asked.  "Wouldn't it make more sense to come in the morning and check the place out?"

"Kids, remember?  They might not be alive in the morning."

"Right, of course.  Sorry."  
  
Dean gave him a friendly pat in the arm.  He really did like the guy.  Dean opened the trunk and got them both flashlights, weapons, and filled their pockets with hex bags, containers of holy water, salt, and then took a flare gun just in case.  He had no idea what they had going on here, so he wanted to take some of everything.  

Of course, his best weapon was on the other end of his cell phone, and given that it was night and he a mere human with limited nighttime vision, he wanted the angel on the hunt.  He dialed Castiel.

John snorted.  "So odd to think that an angel has a cell phone."

"You should have seen him when he first got it."  Dean snickered in memory of some of the goofy stuff Castiel would say, or how he'd show up and still talk on the phone, even when he was only inches from Dean.  "Hey, Cas, you got time to go on a hunt?"

"Yes," Castiel said, suddenly there in their midst.  "I am here now," he said into the phone.

"Yeah, Cas, I got it." Dean closed his phone, and shot John a sideways grin.  "Can you tell what we got here?"

Castiel lifted his head a little, as if sniffing the wind, and said, "Angry spirit.  There were many tribes of people here thousands of years ago, and their graves have been desecrated."

"So we need to find it, figure out who he or she is, and burn its bones?" John asked.  "If there really are that many tribes buried here, that could take us months."

"All we need to do is find the spirit, and Castiel can do the rest," Dean said.  He shot a proud look at Castiel, taking a moment to think about how awesome the angel was.

A shy smile appeared on Castiel's face.  For once, Dean didn't mind if Castiel was reading his mind.  

* * *

Sherlock had gone briefly back to the Winchester Gospels and was reading the synopsis on the back cover of each book just to make sure he wasn't missing anything but emotional detritus.  He supposed John was right in a way.  What these men had done was astonishing, or it would be if Sherlock could conceive of it as real.  And despite what he'd seen and heard, he was having a hard time imagining it as real.

Plus, and he'd argue with John until the man agreed with him, most of the truly awful things that had happened to them were because they were all, as Bobby would put it, although perhaps not in his parlance, a bunch of idiots.  He couldn't fathom the torture these people put themselves through for each other.  There was only one person in the entire universe Sherlock could see putting himself out for and, thankfully, John was too intelligent and experienced to get himself into the sort of trouble Dean and Sam had mucked about in for years.

Mycroft, damn him, had interpreted the chaos surrounding the Winchesters quite rightly.  He pulled out his phone.

DEAN WINCHESTER IS BEYOND WEARYING. SH

There was no answer forthcoming, and Sherlock frowned at the phone until he realized it was the middle of the night in London.  He was tempted to phone Mycroft to wake him but saw something in the book blurb that intrigued him.  He opened the book called _Sympathy for the Devil_ and began to read.

A little while later, one of Bobby's phones began to ring.  Sherlock had watched last night, fascinated for a time, at the system of phones Bobby had set up.  Somewhat Neanderthal, true, but ingenious nonetheless.  It made him think, though, that Americans as a whole were a naïve bunch to believe the rubbish Bobby told them, assuring strangers that the hunters in their midst were with the FBI, or the CIA, or any number of different agencies.

"Are you shitting me?"  Then, "Yeah, yeah, smells that bad, huh?" Bobby said. "Tell me what else you got."

Curious, Sherlock stood up to observe what Bobby was writing down.  It was the fifth item that triggered a memory and Sherlock went to retrieve a book.

"I'll have to do some research--"  
  
"Page fifty-five, I believe," Sherlock told him as he handed a book over, and then resumed his seat on the couch.

"Uh," Bobby said, "hold on."  There were sounds of Bobby flipping through pages, some silence as he read, a softly spoken, "Huh," then, "okay, I think it's an Aniwye.  Believe it or not, it's a giant man eating skunk monster.  Says here it killed people by breaking wind at them, causing them to get sick and die."

There was a silence on Bobby's end as the hunter on the other end spoke.

"No idea.  Hey, Brains."

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the book.  "Did you just call me 'Brains'?"

"Yeah, so use them to give me some ideas about how you'd kill something like this."

Sherlock, captivated at being asked, pulled his laptop closer and began to type.  A few minutes later he said, "I have no idea if it's true or not, but I've found several sources that say a skunk won't cross a ring of cayenne pepper.  Perhaps if it is contained, it will be easier to kill."

"Better than nothing," Bobby said, and relayed the info to the person he was speaking with.  "Try it and let me know how it goes."  He hung up and went back to whatever he'd been doing.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.  "Yeah," Bobby said.  

Sherlock couldn't imagine it was the first hunter again; he or she could barely have had time to procure sufficient cayenne pepper to cook dinner let alone contain a monster.  A skunk monster.  Sherlock let that percolate, but it stayed in a category in Sherlock's mind he called Delete, along with hell, heaven, angels-- although with repeated exposure to Castiel that wouldn't be as easy--, souls, and now skunk monsters.

"Brains?"

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his grin.  As monikers went, it was at least appropriate.  "Yes?"  Lord knew he'd been called much worse.  

"Tonight's the night for weird ones.  You read anything lately about babies found by a lake associated with something bad happening?"

Sherlock got up and crossed to the first bookcase he'd started with last night.  "This one."  He flipped through the pages and read to Bobby, "Water babies.  They inhabit smaller bodies of water, and can take the form of beautiful human infants.  It states that in many tribal traditions, the cry of a water baby is an omen of death. In others, responding to a water baby's crying by picking it up results in catastrophe."

"Sounds like that could be it," Bobby said.  Into the phone, he added, "You get all that?"  Pause.  "I don't know, let me ask."  To Sherlock, he asked, "Does it say how to kill it?"

Sherlock frowned in thought.  "Ah," he finally said, and went to retrieve another book, after leaving the first one with Bobby.  This one he laid on top of the other book.  It was another tale about water babies, but this one spoke of them as angry spirits of premature or ill-formed infants that had been drowned in whatever lake they were haunting.  "Perhaps nothing more than an angry spirit."

Bobby began to discuss this with the hunter, and Sherlock went back to his book.

The next three calls Bobby was able to field without Sherlock's help, which allowed Sherlock to finish the book.  "Bobby?"

"Yeah," Bobby said.

"You've been possessed."

Bobby looked up from the book he was reading and glanced at the one Sherlock had just finished.  "You get what a crapfest that whole thing was for me?"

Sherlock could see Bobby visibly shutting down with the end result of a refusal to tell Sherlock anything.  "Wait, wait.  Yes, of course," he lied.  Or perhaps not lied, exactly, it was more that he didn't really care.  "What I actually wanted to discuss was how you were able to wrest control from the demon.  That was, well, considering all the other demon possession stories I've read lately, it seems impressive."

"He was about to make me kill Dean, and that wasn't happening.  He didn't expect me to stab myself.  It's the only reason it worked."

Sherlock stared at Bobby for a long moment, comparing, laughingly, their relative brain power, then lay back on the couch, and closed his eyes, clasping his hands together, index fingers extended, resting on his chin.

He heard steps and opened his eyes to see Bobby glaring down at him.  "What the hell are you thinking?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose.  "All of this is exceedingly new and requires a shift in my world view.  I was merely taking a few minutes to continue that process."

The glare continued for what felt like a long time.  "Don't do anything stupid," was what Bobby finally said.  "Or more stupid.  I'm surrounded by idjits and that includes you.  For a while, I thought maybe your friend John was the only sensible one in the bunch, but he's out there hunting with Dean when anyone really sensible would be running as far away from here as possible."

Sherlock had no reply to that other than a smug satisfaction that John was here because he was.

"I already said it once, but you need to understand that in this profession," Bobby warned, "the people you love, die.  No matter how much you love them, and no matter how hard you try to keep it from happening."

"There does seem to be, however, any number of ways to bring them back to life," Sherlock pointed out.

"Not without a price."  The phone rang again, and Bobby moved to the line of phones and answered it.

Sherlock helped Bobby out two more times finding him answers to questions hunters called in for.  He even got a grudging thanks out of the older man.  Sherlock could do this indefinitely, or at least until new puzzles stopped presenting themselves; clearly there were repeats.  Of course, the system was archaic.  All of these books needed to be scanned in and indexed so they'd be available to any hunter with a smart phone.  A dozen people could have all these books scanned in under a week.  His phone chimed.

IT IS NOT TOO LATE TO COME HOME.  I CAN SEND A PLANE.  MH

IF I LEFT HERE, I WOULD ONLY HUNT DEMONS THERE.  I NEED FURTHER INSTRUCTION.  SH

Sherlock was certain Mycroft would probably be willing to provide tutors in the demon hunting field if Sherlock went home, but he wanted to learn this on his own, not in any way that made him beholden to his brother.

WHAT TYPES OF DEMONS EXIST IN LONDON?  AND WHY HAVE I NEVER COME ACROSS THEM?  SH

VAMPIRES FOR THE MOST PART.  AND I SUSPECT THEY BELIEVE YOU ARE ONE OF THEM.  MH

Very funny.  Sherlock lay back down on the couch with his latest tome and began to read.

* * *

"I love hunts like this," Dean crowed, as they drove back to the salvage yard.

John had to agree.  They were all alive, the children had been found and dropped off near to their homes, he and Dean had been a little bruised and battered but Castiel had taken care of that, leaving John feeling better than he had in ages, and a little giddy to boot.  It helped deflect some of the pain of his brand new tattoo on his left upper arm.

"So this will really keep me from getting possessed?" John asked, marveling.

"As long as they don't cut it or burn it," Dean said.  "Which they sometimes do.  I have two of them, just in case."

"I would not allow you to be possessed," Castiel said.

"You're not always here," Dean said.

Castiel looked away.

"Hey, hey," Dean said, reaching out a hand to curl around Castiel's forearm.  "That wasn't a complaint.  It's just the truth.  I know you have things to do."

"I would prefer to always be here," Castiel said honestly.

Even in the dark, John could see Dean's cheeks redden and he grinned to himself.  They were adorable.  He wondered how long it would take before things moved forward, if they could.  Do angels even have sex?  He blanched, sincerely hoping Castiel hadn't read that last thought.

Castiel looked over his shoulder at John.  "Not often," he said, "but there have been exceptions."

John knew the blush he was sporting had to be a virulent red.  "Sorry."

"You two telling secrets?" Dean asked, with just a little bit of edge to his voice.

"I had an unfortunate and very embarrassing thought," John said, "and Castiel chose to respond to it."  He didn't want Dean thinking they were ganging up on him.  From what he could see, Castiel was the only thing in Dean's life, other than Bobby, that he believed was on his side. 

"Cas," Dean scolded.  "No reading minds!  How many times do I have to tell you?"

"It was a loud thought," Castiel said, not sounding sorry at all.

Fortunately, they arrived at Bobby's front door, ending that awkward conversation.  John opened his door quickly, giving Dean and Castiel the opportunity to have a moment.  Maybe Dean would force Castiel to tell him John's thought, and maybe Dean would learn something about his angel that might keep them in the car for a while.

Grinning, John entered the house.

Sherlock sat up, his nostrils flaring, and his eyes raked John.  "You've had a tattoo."

"I have."

"Why?"

"It's an anti-demon tattoo," John said.  "A demon can't possess you if you have one that's intact on your body.  You should get one."

"I'll pass," Sherlock said.  

"Why, when it's something that could protect you?" John asked.

"I abhor tattoos," Sherlock said.

John winced, his hand going automatically to his right upper arm.   
  
"Not on you, John," Sherlock said.  "On me."

"Oh," John said, absurdly relieved.  "What have you been up to?"

"He's been, much to my surprise, actually helpful," Bobby said.

Dean walked in during that statement, and he snorted.  "Tell me another one."

John guessed his appearance meant that Dean still didn't know that Castiel was an exception in the making with the hope of sex in his future.

The phone chose that moment to ring, and Bobby answered.  He started writing stuff down, interspersed with "yeah, yeah, okay, don't be an idjit, yeah, hold on.  Sherlock."

Sherlock was on his feet immediately, grabbing the list from Bobby.  John enjoyed watching Sherlock think, before he bounded to a bookcase and withdrew one book there and another from the bookcase next to it.  He handed them both to Bobby after opening them to specific pages.

Dean stared at him.  "You memorize everything in these books?"

"I'm working on it," Sherlock said.

Dean made a huh-that's-cool sort of face and grinned.  "You might have just found a way to make yourself useful, Mr. Peabody."

"Facts," Sherlock said, "are useful."

Dean went to grab a beer from the refrigerator.  "Facts are useful.  I'll drink to that."  He popped the lid off and took a long swig.  "Drink?"

"I'll make us tea, shall I?" John asked, not wanting this moment of peace interrupted by Sherlock's scathing review of American beer.

Dean got out of his way and moved over to Bobby.  "Hey, if he actually memorizes all of this, maybe you can take a vacation.  We can all go the Grand Canyon."

"Oh, that's one place I'd love to see," John admitted as he set the full kettle on the stove.

"You can come.  But Sherlock would have to stay here and answer the phones."

"Knowing Sherlock," John said, "if you left him here for a week, he'd have all these books scanned, a computer index set up, and he'd have created some sort of answering system that none of us could figure out."  He laughed at the glee in Sherlock's eyes as if in response to a dare.  

Bobby took the beer Dean offered.  "You want to get these books scanned, knock yourself out."

"Sounds like you have a project," Dean said.  "And I'm not helping."

Sherlock was ignoring them all, typing something in his phone.

I NEED MANPOWER TO SCAN MULTIPLE DEMON TEXTS TO CREATE DIGITAL LIBRARY. SUGGESTIONS? AND WHO IS MR. PEABODY? SH

End


	4. Wherein Sherlock learns an extraordinarily painful lesson about arrogance and love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will never learn a lesson the easy way. This time John pays the price. Major, MAJOR John whumping and Sherlock angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my vunderbar alphas and betas. My stories are always so much better for their hard work. For this story that includes: Ruth for brit-picking, and Susan.

John had a cold. Dull. Dean had refused to take Sherlock on a case without John. Ridiculous. And Bobby was off doing something that did not require assistance, no doubt something even more absurd.

Sherlock was wandering around Bobby's salvage yard half in disgust at the refuse and half in envy at the thought of having a space like this, filled with the sort of detritus that he would find useful for his experiments.

"Hallo," a voice said.

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop when he saw Crowley standing in front of him. Finally! Something interesting. "Hello," he said back.

"I couldn't help but notice how curious you are about demons," Crowley said.

"True. It's harder to fight against what you don't fully understand."

A small smile graced Crowley's lips. "Very wise. Sure I can't talk you into selling your soul?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Quite sure. First of all, I do not believe such a thing exists. Therefore selling it for something becomes immediately suspect."

"Souls are a big commodity," Crowley countered. "You wouldn't believe the going rate for one. Inflation is out of control."

"Boring," Sherlock said. "I'm talking to a demon, and yet, somehow, you're boring me."

Crowley's eyes narrowed in annoyed contemplation. "So what you're looking for is new experiences?"

"That aren't boring," Sherlock stipulated.

"Sounds as if you might have something in mind," Crowley said, walking around Sherlock, studying him. He laughed suddenly, "Oh, you are an arrogant sod."

"With good reason."

"You really want to go head-to-head with a demon? You actually think you'd come out on top?"

Sherlock frowned; he'd not realized that Crowley could pick an idea out of his head. He didn't like the idea of anyone else in his mind but him. On the other hand, the thought of going up against a demon was intriguing. "I do," was all he said.

"I can arrange that for you," Crowley offered. 

Sherlock snorted. "For the price of my soul?"

"Oh, no. I'll do this one for free, just for the entertainment value alone." He glanced at the house. "And seeing as everyone's gone, except for your friend, this might be a good time."

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" Sherlock asked, a small part of him sure that John would heartily disapprove.

"Because this, I want to see," Crowley said with a grin. "Just say the word and I'll call in a demon and we'll see who wins. I've got to say, my money's on my guy." He left that hanging there like a challenge.

"A demon's mind against mine?" Sherlock said incredulous. "It won't even be a challenge."

"Oh, I love it when the big ones fall," Crowley said, holding up his hand, ready to snap. "Just say the word."

"Fine," Sherlock said irritably, aggravated at Crowley's lack of faith in his intelligence, and truly intrigued at what it would be like.

And then there was a tornado of black slimy smoke pouring down his throat with a pervasive impression of evil that slid into his pores and cells and the marrow of his bones, and Sherlock knew he'd made the biggest mistake of his life.

Crowley grinned at him. "Well? I'm waiting. And this one isn't exactly the brightest bulb in the bunch, if you get my meaning." He mimed a one-two punch. "Go for it. Smack him down."

But Sherlock could do nothing as the cruel presence inside of him blundered through his mind without any particular direction or finesse, like an elephant tramping through a landscaped garden. There didn't seem to be any clear direction until the demon, horrifyingly, found his thoughts and feelings for John. Found the place John held in Sherlock's heart. And worse, found Sherlock's awareness of John's feelings for him, both emotional and sexual. The demon laughed at Sherlock, a laugh full of wicked desire for pain and debasement and a joy in destruction of anything good and wonderful and decent, and if anyone was all those things, it was John.

"Oh, I think I could have fun with him," the demon said inside of him.

"Do not," Sherlock ordered, fighting as hard as he could to wrest the control of his body back, his body that was heading back into the house, back to John. But he might as well have been fighting the wind; there was nothing to grab onto, no one to convince, no argument telling enough. It was pure malevolence, and Sherlock was powerless against it.

His body was walked to the bedroom where John was napping, and he stared down at John as he lay asleep. His wonderful John, who would soon wake and think it was his friend Sherlock standing there. He tried to yell, to warn him, to fight hard enough to gain some control over his body, his voice, anything, but he was a prisoner bound inside his body, and he realized he could be lost in this nightmare forever. That he'd handed his life over as easily as someone might sell a piece of furniture, but with much less thought and surely much less reason. He screamed John's name, soundlessly, voicelessly, over and over again.

The demon sat down on the bed and cupped John's face. "Hello, John," he said. And Sherlock could see it in his head, what he meant to do, how he hoped he'd fool John and start out sweet before getting vicious and violating John's body with anger and cruelty.

John opened his eyes, staring blearily up at Sherlock, or what he thought was Sherlock. "Sherlock?"

"In the flesh," Sherlock's mouth said.

And somehow, in just that short an instant, John knew. He knew. And Sherlock had never felt so known and so undeserving, and he was doubly devastated at what his body might do to John's, even with John's understanding. 

John was up and moving, trying to get past Sherlock, but he was sick, and he'd just been woken up, and his eyes were bright with a fever; and despite all of Sherlock's wasted wishing, the demon brought him down to the floor, hard, and then grabbed his left arm, twisting it until the bone snapped. 

John let out a scream of pain, and Sherlock fought like a dervish, pushing against the control, screaming his own anguish inside his head, but it was pointless and he'd never hated himself more for thinking he could do this, that it would be an intellectual challenge.

John tried to fight back but it was a useless effort. The demon lay on top of him, holding him down as easily as a child, partly with the weight of him, and partly with his power. "Oh, John. Isn't this what you've dreamed of? Me lying on top of you, thrusting into you, taking you," the demon asked, "and then added, derisively, "loving you." He pushed his face into John's until their noses were touching. "He feels sorry for you. He knows what you want, your prurient interests in his body. Do you honestly think he'd be interested? In you? He thinks you're good for nothing but getting him his tea."

Sherlock hated every word that came out of his mouth. Every word held enough truth for John to believe them. Sherlock couldn't stand that John's last memories would be of Sherlock breaking his body, while his words broke his spirit. He struggled some more, thinking that if he could just get one word out, to say his friend's name, to put his own expression on his face, to let John know how much he respected him, loved him more than he had ever loved anything in his life, that he returned all of John's feelings, but had thought they had time, time for everything. But Sherlock had wanted to be in control and pick the time and place, and it seemed so hateful now that he'd had so little regard for John in all of that.

"Shut up, you monster," John spit in the demon's face. "Those are your words, not his. And you're doing this to me, not him. Sherlock, if you can hear me, I forgive you. This isn't--" His sentence broke off with another scream, as the demon pushed in on his sides and splintered his ribs.

John wouldn't forgive him; not if he knew that Sherlock had asked for this. He'd never forgive him ever again, and that was assuming he lived through this. Already he was gasping for breath, but Sherlock didn't know if that was from the pain or because the broken ribs had done some internal damage.

"Oh, I love this part," the demon said, lifting himself off until he was straddling John's ankles. "And the thigh bone's" he sang and touched John's right thigh with the merest tap of a finger and Sherlock could hear his bone snap, "connected to the knee bone," and he smashed his fist into both of John's knees.

John convulsed in pain and horror, screaming again, and there was blood in his mouth, dribbling down his cheeks and jaw, and Sherlock was perishing inside, because John was dying, John was dying right in front of him, because of him, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

"And the knee bone's connected to the shin bone," and snap went the bones in John’s lower legs.

Sherlock wanted to die, he wanted to curl up into John's arms and hold him and die with him. This was intolerable. Oh, God, it was intolerable.

The door opened behind him, and someone said, "What the hell?", and then a hand was slapped on his forehead and that same person began to chant, clearly and fiercely, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

The demon let out a scream of his own and wrenched his head away and turned around to face his attacker. "Oh, Sammy Winchester, do you really think you can stop me?"

Sam apparently did, as he kept going, "Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te, cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare."

The demon tried to make him stop, but every time he opened his mouth, he would cough, and Sherlock could see the clumps of slimy black smoke falling out of his mouth. He did his best to fight from the inside, to keep the demon from successfully repelling Sherlock's savior. He was frenzied that it wouldn't be in time to save John. His John, who was bleeding to death, snapped in so many places like a handful of kindling.

"Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili Nomini quem inferi tremunt. Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine," Sam finished off, and all the smoke poured from his mouth and out the window.

Sherlock fell to his knees sobbing, turning to John, "Oh, God, call for an ambulance! John, oh, John," Sherlock cried, trying to find someplace not broken to touch, to reassure, to grovel for forgiveness. 

He heard Sam behind him calling for an ambulance, and Sherlock lay on the floor, as close to John as he could get without causing him any more pain. "John, can you hear me?"

John's words were slurred and garbled, as he tried to form syllables with a mouth full of blood, and Sherlock strained with all his being to understand. "I f'give," and then John's eyes closed, and panic, sheer unadulterated panic, unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced, sluiced through him like a giant, painful, electric shock. He'd always thought he'd thrived on panic, that it made him feel alive, but the thought of John's death at his hands, at his absence from his life, at the years stretching ahead of him without John…he was paralyzed. Utterly paralyzed at the thought, or at least the outside of him was. 

Inside, his heart was pounding painfully hard as if his body might shake apart from it, and his stomach was roiling. He swallowed against the bile hissing up his throat. 

Sam Winchester pushed him aside and knelt down next to John, putting a finger on his neck to find his pulse. After a moment that felt like hours, he said, "He's still alive, although I'm not sure how. And who the hell are you and how did this happen?" 

Sherlock registered nothing after Sam's initial words. "He's alive?" he stammered out. "Oh, God. He's alive?" He hated that he was so far from home and away from the resources he was familiar with; being able to call Lestrade, or even Mycroft, made things happen so very quickly. 

"Where's Dean? Where's Castiel?" Sam lifted his face up to the ceiling and bellowed impressively. "Castiel!"

It wasn't Castiel who showed up; it was Crowley, grinning ear to ear. "So how'd that work out for you?"

Sam got his hand around Crowley's neck and pushed him against the wall. "What the fuck did you do?"

"Oh, this one's not on me, Sammy boy," Crowley said, completely unaffected by Sam's violence on his person. He easily pushed Sam off of him, and straightened the lapels on his black suit coat.

Sherlock could hear what they were saying, but he had eyes for nothing but John. His faithful, loving John, who forgave him without thought. His wonderful John who would hate him when he found out Sherlock had asked for this, had arrogantly volunteered for the experience, with no thought for collateral damage, least of all his beautiful, broken, bleeding John.

"Fix him," Sherlock begged Crowley. His voice was raw and thick, as if all the screaming he'd done internally as the demon within him had ravaged John had managed to damage his vocal cords.

"For your soul," Crowley said with a feral grin, eyes sparkling with menace. "Still think they don't exist, if I'll take yours in exchange for his life?"

"No one's trading souls away today," Sam said in a dangerous tone.

"Please," Sherlock begged. "He didn't deserve this. He's a good man."

Crowley scoffed. "Good men are boring."

Sherlock surged off the floor and charged at Crowley, murder in his heart, wanting to destroy this being who laughed at him while John lay in pain and misery on the floor at his feet. Crowley snapped his fingers and Sherlock found himself pressed against the wall as if invisible bindings held his ankles and wrists.

"Like I said," Crowley repeated, as he advanced on Sherlock. "One soul, for one life. Take it or leave it."

"What the fuck is going on here," Dean yelled from the doorway. "Jesus, John!" he cried out, running to John's side. "Castiel!"

This time Castiel did appear, and with one look at John, he crouched at John's side and gently touched his forehead. From one moment to the next, his body healed, bones snapping into place, his chest reshaping as ribs were reformed. John drew in a gasping breath, his eyes popping open, then closing, his face still in a rictus of pain as if the memory of the attack and the injuries still hurt him.

Crowley made a disgusted noise with his tongue against his teeth. "You suck all the fun out of everything."

Dean stood and glared at him. "What the fuck is going on?" He said each word slowly and deadly and Sherlock, for the first time, felt afraid of him, of what Dean would do when he found out what he'd done.

"This is the part I've been waiting for!" Crowley said, rubbing his hands together in glee.

Sherlock, suddenly free, let out a groan and sank to the floor, knees hugged tightly to his chest, not willing to look at John, at Dean, at anyone, wishing, like a child, that he was safe at home where no prying eyes could see him. He wanted Mycroft to come rescue him, like he had when they were young and Sherlock had done something spectacularly stupid. Not that any of that equaled this awful, awful, thing he'd done.

"He asked for it," Crowley crowed. "Said he wanted to let a demon in and pit his brain against theirs. Guess what? He lost."

Sherlock was jerked up to his feet and then he was spinning around with the force of Dean's punch to his jaw. He slammed into the wall, tears springing to his eyes, knowing he deserved so much more than this. He stood up and placed himself in front of Dean, and Dean took the invitation and punched him again and again, slamming his fist into Sherlock's gut and sides and face, and Sherlock would have let him beat him until he was senseless, would have welcomed oblivion.

But then John was pleading for Dean to stop, and Sam was grabbing Dean around his middle and yanking him away, and Sherlock fell to his knees, hands over his face, sobbing now, with the pain and the humiliation, and the crippling fear that John would hate him always, would leave him.

"You stupid idiot," Dean was yelling at him, unable to break out of his brother's hold, but more than capable of verbally flaying him. "I told you you'd get him hurt. I told you that your fucking pride would get him killed. How could you be so stupid?" 

Sherlock couldn't look at him, keeping his face covered, for the first time in his life truly believing he deserved all the hateful words being spewed at him, because Dean was right. Dean had been right, and Sherlock had hurt John, had torn him apart with his own hands.

But then someone was holding him, rocking him, and whispering. "Sherlock, it's all right. I forgive you."

"How the fuck can you forgive him, John? You need to send him back to England and good riddance to bad rubbish," Dean said hotly. "The next time he will get you killed. It's only luck that Sam showed up. If he hadn't, you would have been dead, and he'd be on the road with that brain of his being ridden by a demon because he's a fucking moron."

"I know," John said, running his fingers up and down Sherlock's back. "I know." He just held on tighter.

"Dean," Sam said. 

"And don't you start," Dean rounded on his brother. 

"You forgave me, and I did worse than him. You know I did."

"You're my brother," Dean said.

"And even though I don't know them, it's pretty clear they're about as close."

Sherlock could hear Dean's breath heaving, and then he was punching a wall, and then Castiel was scolding Dean. But Sherlock didn't care; he didn't care about any of it, because John didn't hate him. By some miracle, John didn't despise him. Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around John. "John, I'm so sorry. Why don't you hate me? I hate myself for what I've done. How can you forgive me?"

"You're getting a fucking tattoo today!" Dean snapped.

"Anything," Sherlock said hoarsely, still not meeting Dean's eyes. "Anything."

Crowley let out an exaggerated sigh of dismay. "You people are no fun. I was really counting on more hatred and drama. I hate nice people." And with that, he popped out of existence, as easily as a snap of his fingers, as if he hadn't just eviscerated Sherlock, taking the best part of him, the part that kept him alive and remotely human, and ripping it apart. Moriarty might have threatened to burn the heart out of him, but Sherlock had managed to do it all on his own. 

"John," Sherlock said again, hanging onto John for all he was worth, as if he was the only life-preserver in a tumultuous sea. "John. You should loathe me beyond reason right now."

John leaned back and took a good look at Sherlock, wiping the tears off his face, ignoring his own tears. "You are so phenomenally stupid sometimes," he scolded. "But this one really scared you, I think, so I have to hope you learned a lesson."

"I did," Sherlock said fervently.

John let out a short high-pitched laugh. "We'll see how long this remorse of yours lasts." He slapped the back of Sherlock's head. "So stupid. Sherlock. So, so, stupid."

"It was," Sherlock agreed quickly. "But, in my defense, I do understand demons much better now, and now realize, quite thoroughly, the type of enemy you fight." He glanced up at Dean. "I know you despise me right now, but…"

"Don't even fucking talk to me," Dean said. "For like a week." He stalked out of the room, but then turned around and snapped, "And you still don't understand shit. Just because you understand one demon, doesn't mean you understand them all." He let out an angry laugh. "I think that humility lasted a whole two minutes. Nice job, asshole." This time he did leave the room, fury palpably surrounding him.

"Castiel," John asked, as the angel began to follow after Dean, "could you fix him?"

Looking almost absentminded, as if most of him was already out the door and following Dean, Castiel touched Sherlock's forehead, and then he did trail Dean out the door.

Sherlock was sorry all the pain was gone. "You shouldn't have done that," he told John. "I deserve to be in pain, for a long while."

John shook his head. "You deserved a beating, and I have to say I'm glad it was Dean who gave it to you rather than me, but he hit you pretty hard."

"Nothing more than I deserve," Sherlock said again. He pulled John close again and put his forehead on John's shoulder. "Jesus, John. That was the worst thing I ever did or saw or felt. Even worse than the bees. A thousand times worse than the bees. What he did to you. John. What he wanted to do to you." His hands slunk around John's back, needing to feel all of him in his arms, his rib cage back in one piece, hale and hearty, and so very John.

"You guys all right?" Sam asked.

"I'm in your debt," Sherlock said, voice somewhat muffled as he was speaking against the fabric of John's t-shirt. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I can't say it enough."

"I get it," Sam said. "I get thinking that you're doing the right thing, that it's for a good cause and, only later, after you've hurt the people you love the most and unleashed an untold amount of danger on the world, do you actually realize…well, how dangerous pride is. The type of pride that says you are stronger and smarter and know better, because all that gets you is someone bigger and stronger than you putting a ring through your nose and dragging you around."

Sherlock turned his head to see that Sam was crouching down so they were almost eye level. He recalled the Winchester Gospels, and the decisions that Sam had made that brought Lucifer, assuming there was a Lucifer--Sherlock hadn't quite made his mind up about that--out of his cage, resulting in hundreds of thousands of deaths. Sam had made the same type of decision Sherlock had made, through hubris. And if Sam hadn't come along, who knows what the demon inhabiting him might have done.

Sam continued. "People like Dean," and he let out a soft laugh, "they're the real heroes, because they just put their heads down and do the work. He's forgiven me for stuff…" Sam sighed. "He just keeps forgiving me." He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "When you're ready, you and I should talk. And you're definitely getting a tattoo."

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder. He'd do anything if it would keep John safe from him. He heard the ambulance siren approaching, and hoped that someone would deal with it.

"Okay," Sam said. "I'll try and talk Dean down. No promises, but I'll do my best."

John was the one who said, "Sam, I'll add my thanks to Sherlock's. That was, that was, well, it was dreadful. The physical pain of it, of course, but the rest of it, too. Knowing Sherlock was trapped in there."

"I've been on both sides of it, and so have Dean and Bobby. We do get it. I do, at least, and Dean will come around. It's his nature, much as he'd probably punch me before admitting it." He patted both their shoulders and stood, leaving the room, shutting the door as he left.

Sherlock didn't want to come out of hiding; he liked it here on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock," John said, running fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock shook his head frantically.

Not willing to take no for an answer, John got his fingers in Sherlock's hair and tugged until Sherlock had to look at him.

It was humiliating. All of it. To know how utterly wrong he'd been, and to know John should not be forgiving him, and yet to see the love John had for him, still, shining out of his eyes. It just made it all the more shameful to have to accept it, to let John love him and forgive him, despite the horror Sherlock still felt, almost as keenly as if John was still lying on the floor wrecked and shattered. He said, thoroughly believing it, "You mustn't forgive me. John, you mustn't."

"That's my decision, not yours."

"How can you?" Sherlock desperately searched John's eyes for a reason. "I did this, John. Perhaps I wasn't in control of myself at the time, but it was still, utterly, my fault."

"I don't know," John said honestly. "Maybe because it happened so fast, and I was already feeling sick before it all started, that the whole thing seems more like a nightmare. And now I'm awake and totally healed, including my cold, and you're you again." He stopped for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. "Sherlock, I know you. I know how you think, or don't think, despite how lauded your brain is. And this…this was definitely a case of not thinking."

Sherlock was actually relieved that John was now sounding annoyed.

"Is it time to go home? To London?" John asked.

It was tempting, Sherlock had to admit. To go back to what he knew, to what he excelled at. But it was also back to the boredom, and the stultifying life of much too little to do to stretch his mind. He'd have John, of course, but he'd have him here, too. This was assuming that Dean wasn't, at this very moment, convincing Castiel to instantaneously transport them back to their Baker Street flat.

But he had learned something today. And despite how ghastly the entire affair had been, and despite Dean's angry words, Sherlock would be a better hunter because of it. He would be more able to understand a demon's motives, knowing now, to his marrow, the depravity that was at the core of all their behavior, even taking into account that not all demons were alike.

"If you want to go home," Sherlock finally said, "I won't fight you. But I'd rather stay. The only thing I can't do without, though, is you."

John stared at him, as if he was trying to understand what Sherlock meant by that.

Deciding actions would speak louder than any amount of words, Sherlock kissed him.

John startled back, gaping at Sherlock. "What?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Don't try to deny that you've wanted this."

Looking affronted and leaning away, John said snippily, "I wouldn't dare, Mr. Sees All, but wanting and then being told I have to take it are two different things. Since when do you want this? You've made it clear over and over that you're not interested. I don't want your pity, Sherlock."

"No, no, John. That's the last thing this is. Don't you see?" Sherlock yanked at his hair. Feelings. They were such wretched things, and required a delicate use of the English language that was tiresome. He wished he could plug John directly into his brain. "You were dying. Right there, on the floor, in front of me, and my life without you was pointless." 

Sherlock had a moment's amusement at the now slack-jawed expression on John's face. "And you forgave me. John. You are a marvel. Never has there been anyone like you. And for me not to have it all? Not to have you in every way I can, is sheer stupidity. Don't you see?"

"For how long?" John asked, still suspicious. "Until you get bored? I don't think I can take this step with you only to be cast aside. Relationships don't work that way. No matter how distasteful it might be to you, adding this to what we already are comes laden with expectations. It can't be turned on and off." John got up off the floor and sat on the bed. "I'd rather you thought this through for a day or two. This isn't the wisest time to do this."

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded. Never did he think John would turn him down. 

With a lopsided smile, John moved back down to sit beside him. "I'm not saying no, Sherlock. You know I want this. I've wanted it for a long time. But not at the expense of our friendship. And if we do this, and then you decide you don't want it, I won't be able to stay friends with you. It would hurt too much. Give it a while. Please."

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, needing the privacy, however delusional. His emotions were all over the place, jumbled in a pile of love and anger and hope and rejection and longing and loneliness, and he hated it all. 

"Sherlock," John said, touching his hands.

There was a loud knock on the door, and Sherlock felt saved by the metaphorical bell. The door was opened without waiting for permission and Dean was shooting hateful looks at Sherlock. "You're getting that tattoo right now, before you do something else stupid. They're waiting for you at the shop. Sam's taking you."

"I'll go with you," John offered.

"No," Sherlock said, rising to his feet. His brain felt numb. He needed to get away from John to think, and having a session of controlled pain felt perfect in so many ways for the state of his mind.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just stalked out of the room to find Sam.

*****

"What was that about?" Dean seethed. He wanted to put a bullet through the idiot's brain.

John shook his head.

"Seriously," Dean said. "Tell me. I need to know what he's thinking. I don't trust him. I didn't before, and I really don't trust him now. You have to tell me how he thinks."

John let out a frustrated laugh, getting to his feet. "Understand Sherlock?"

"You do get that he almost killed you, right?" Dean said, sounding very annoyed.

"He's almost killed me half a dozen times," John admitted. "I think I must be a really sick fuck to find it as exciting as I do." He touched Dean's arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, wanting him to understand. "Wouldn't you hate it? Living like a civilian?"

Dean would hate it, but he didn't want to admit it, if it meant a step toward thinking Sherlock was okay.

"I think I told you that I was in Afghanistan?"

Dean nodded.

"I did two tours and I would have stayed there until they kicked me out. I loved it best when the mortars were falling, and the field hospital was full of wounded soldiers." He frowned, as if not liking his words. "Not liked like I got off on people being hurt. I didn't like that part, and I worked my arse off putting them back together but, God, I felt so alive. I was such a part of the basic rhythm of life and death where nothing matters but what's right in front of you and surviving another day."

John let out a snort and continued. "And then I got shot, and got invalided home, on a pension that only let me rent a one-room flat, and I had nothing to do, and no one to do it with, and I missed it. I missed it like I'd lost a limb." He smiled. "And then I met Sherlock. And it was like I was right back in the war with bullets flying and adrenalin rushes, and it felt fucking fantastic."

Dean stared at him, at this surprising side of John, the adrenaline junkie side, that loved facing death as much as Dean did, that loved it when life got in your face and screamed at you. And maybe, just maybe, Dean could see how Sherlock could be that for someone. He still didn't trust the bastard. "But this is Sherlock on top of a situation that could kill you. This is Afghanistan plus Sherlock. Demons plus Sherlock. And that could kill you. Almost did kill you."

"I have faith in that brain of his. He'll figure it out. And he'll be the best damn demon hunter, besides you of course, this world has ever seen."

"Good thing you added that bit about me," Dean said, reeling a little from John's unshakable faith in Sherlock despite having almost been ripped apart by his stupidity. He could only wish that someone thought that way about him.

"I do," Castiel said.

And that was when Dean noticed Castiel staring at him in his intense way he had, and he couldn't help but smile at the angel. It wasn't too hard to imagine Castiel being his own personal John, his personal cheering section.

"Why did you not let him kiss you?" Castiel asked John, pulling his attention off of Dean.

"Excuse me?" John asked, startled. 

"Why did you not let him kiss you?" Castiel asked again.

"I'm not sure what you mean?" John hedged.

"Sherlock," Castiel said. "He wished to kiss you. You have wished for him to kiss you. Why did you stop him? I do not understand."

John reddened a little and opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, "It's…well, it's complicated."

"Why?"

Dean watched John struggle to answer and thought maybe he should intervene and help the guy out; but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he'd learn something, and maybe he'd have to go find Sherlock and punch him again.

"I don't…I don't want…he felt badly about what he'd done, and that isn't a good excuse to just kiss someone. He's not really interested in me that way."

"He is," Castiel said. "He loves you."

"I know that," John said with a small smile, "but he's made it quite clear that sex isn't something he's interested in."

"Because he's cracked," Dean contributed.

"He is," Castiel said again. "With you."

"How do you know that?"

"He can read people," Dean offered grudgingly.

"How exactly?" John asked. "I mean, I know you're an angel, but can you really read minds? I know Dean keeps telling you not to do it, but I guess I thought he was teasing you."

"I try not to anymore," Castiel admitted. "Dean says it is wrong to invade people's privacy that way. But sometimes I cannot avoid hearing very loud thoughts and emotions."

John considered Castiel, and then flicked his eyes to Dean and then back to the angel. Dean started to get nervous.

"Why haven't you kissed Dean?" John asked.

"He does not want me to," Castiel said.

Dean gaped at Castiel, and John laughed. "And you think I should believe you about Sherlock, when you're so clearly wrong about Dean? No offense, but I'm not sure you understand people as well as you think."

Castiel turned toward Dean with a desperately hopeful expression on his face that made Dean catch his breath.

John grinned. "Yeah, I'll be outside for a while." He headed for the door.

"John," Dean said, one hand wrapped tightly around Castiel's arm just in case he had any thoughts about leaving.

John stopped, watching him, waiting.

"You say the word and I'll kick him to the curb. I'd choose you over him any day."

Castiel stiffened in his grip, and his eyes grew confused.

"No, no, not you, Cas. Sherlock. I'd choose John over Sherlock. But I'd choose you over everyone," Dean reassured him.

Castiel stepped closer to Dean until their noses were almost touching, and he cocked his head to the side as if he could read all the mysteries of Dean's soul that way. "Dean."

John let out a pained huff of laughter. "Thanks. I appreciate that. Especially because, right now, I don't think Sherlock would choose me at all. He's not very happy with me."

"He's not very happy?" Dean almost squeaked in indignation. "He's such a fucking prima donna." 

"He would choose you," Castiel told John, talking over Dean. "He cares for you very much."

"He's confused," John argued.

"He's not," Castiel said. "His feelings for you are as mine for Dean. He would do anything for you within his abilities. And he would choose to have all of you. Do not let the timing of his affections keep you from having what you desire."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "What are you? An angel yenta? John doesn't need that bozo."

"He does," Castiel said. "As much as Sherlock needs him. As much as I need you." And then his attention was off of John and focused on Dean. 

Dean barely noticed John leaving the room. His mouth felt as dry as a desert, and he painfully cleared his throat. Jesus. Were they really about to do this? Now? "Do you…" He cleared his throat again. "Do you want to kiss me?" His voice was embarrassingly husky. He wanted to be even closer, but the next step would have their bodies pressed together, and Dean wasn't sure Castiel was prepared to feel the evidence of how ready Dean was for anything Castiel wanted to give him.

"You would be willing to kiss me?" Castiel asked, his voice even more gravelly than usual.

Dean just answered that the clearest way he knew how, by taking that last step and pressing his lips to Castiel's. Castiel's kiss was inexperienced, with a fraction of a second delay as he mimicked whatever Dean was doing. It made Dean smile, and he found himself hugging Castiel, holding him close and just loving him so damn much. "Read my mind, Cas." And he loved and loved and loved him with everything he was.

*****

"Do you think Dean has really forgiven you?" Sherlock asked Sam. Sam really had done the most atrocious things, which made Sherlock feel infinitesimally better about his own stupidity. 

Sherlock was doing his best to ignore the man unremittingly puncturing his skin with a sharp implement. Sam had said that the tattooist was a friend of Bobby's and knew about demons, so Sherlock felt comfortable talking. 

Sam winced a little, smiled sadly, and said, "Yes. I mean, the damage was done, and I'm not sure he'll ever trust me the way he used to, but he loves me. He's my brother, so I got a big, undeserved, get-out-of-jail-free card." 

"John says he forgives me," Sherlock said, not sure how he felt about that. John's rejection still stung rather a lot. 

"Does he usually tell the truth?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, realizing it was true. John said what he meant. It wasn't as if John didn't keep secrets, but if Sherlock had ever asked him how he felt, John would have told him.

"There you go then. You got lucky."

Sherlock lay there and concentrated on the pain for a few minutes. "How do you know you won't do something stupid again?" 

"Me?" Sam let out a pained laugh. "I don't. Trust me. I just, there's this thing in me that wants to be the one to save the day, and it fucks me over every time." He shrugged. "So I try to listen to Dean when he tells me I'm going over the rails. I talk to Bobby. And the first step was admitting I've got this huge blind spot that keeps tripping me up. It sucks."

"My mind, my brain, it's my primary instrument, it's my weapon, and if I can't trust it," Sherlock burst out, shifting, getting a grunted warning from the tattooist, "if I can't trust it to make the right decisions, to be smarter and cleverer than a demon, what do I do?"

"You learn how to be smarter and cleverer than a demon by not falling for their stupid tricks. Crowley played you. He knew your weakness and he took advantage of you. It's what they're good at."

Sherlock knew he didn't have a good track record for this sort of thing, memories surfaced of holding the cabbie's pill close to his mouth, about to take it, only stopped by John's bullet. He loved a challenge, loved the hint of death hovering over his shoulder. It was captivating, making life that much sweeter.

Sam shook his head at him, huffing a little. "I can see it all over you. The same look I get, the one that says, ‘Next time I'll do it right. Next time I'll see the clues, and I won't get played. Next time I'll be the hero and everyone will see that I'm the one who saved the day, and then they'll understand why I did what I did.’ It's like crack, that way of thinking."

"But I am almost always right," Sherlock said defensively. "I do solve the crime and I am much smarter than anyone around me, ridiculously so. And I do thrive on it."

"What type of crimes? I, actually, I don't know a thing about you."

"I'm a consulting detective. I work with the police on crimes they can't solve, and I solve them. John's my assistant. He's a medical doctor."

"And now you're hunting demons?"

"Yes."

Sam studied him for a long moment. "I suppose there are some skills that cross over, but demons and angry spirits and all the other supernatural creatures we've been fighting all our life, that’s not the same as regular people committing crimes. You need more than just your mind."

"It seems as if a little more knowledge might have helped you two through the years," Sherlock said stiffly.

"You're right, it would have, but we rarely had the luxury of time for a lot of research. We'd call Bobby, read whatever books we could get our hands on, talk to experts if we were lucky enough to find any, look up the history of the area, stuff like that. But while we were researching, whatever it was we were hunting was out killing, and we had to get the job done."

Sam sighed and continued, "And that wasn't even counting all the extra shit going on, like me being tainted with demon blood and Dean selling his soul, and me going crazy about it trying to save him, and the angels, and the apocalypse. It never stopped. We never had time to just stop. We were on the road constantly, living in the car half the time."

"Why do you do it?"

Sam shrugged, blowing out a breath, running his fingers through his hair. "Dean would tell you that it's the family business. Hunting things, saving people. It's what we've both known all our lives, except for the short time I was in college." His lips tightened. "Once you know this stuff exists, how do you turn your back on it? Who else is going to do it?" Now he grinned lopsidedly, shaking his head. "Dean loves it. As long as he has people around to care about, he'll hunt his whole life."

"He has Castiel," Sherlock said. "And John. I don't think he'd consider me as someone he cares about."

Sam snickered. "It's why I felt free to leave for a while, because he did have Castiel. And I know he'd probably be okay if I left now and went back to school or tried a normal life. But I'm pretty well known in the demon world, and they'll just come looking for me. They have in the past, and I'm not sure I could avoid that unless I just vanish completely, and I don't want to up and leave Dean like that."

"I had Bobby's entire library scanned and put into a large database," Sherlock said suddenly. "You'll have it all at your disposal now, even when you're traveling. You might want to look at it and add keywords that didn't occur to me."

Sam goggled at him. "You did?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Seriously?"

Sherlock nodded again. "My brother arranged a team to come in and get it done. It was finished three days ago."

"Your brother?"

Sherlock waved that question off. "He doesn't matter, outside of his ability to get things taken care of every now and then."

"That will be incredibly useful," Sam said with a blinding grin. "Thank you."

Sherlock found himself smiling back.

"Perhaps," Sam said slowly, "we could help each other. I'll make a deal with you. Let me know if I'm being stupid and I'll do the same for you. And meanwhile, we can be the ones who focus on the research. Having someone on my side who understands how important it is will be a blessing. Dean would race into a situation knowing nothing, guns blazing, if I let him."

This time it was Sherlock studying Sam, wondering if they could help each other. He felt as if Sam understood how you could make terrible decisions with the…well, not the best intentions, but certainly not with the worst intentions either. "I agree to your terms. And now tell me about souls. I don't understand why you all think they're real."

*****

John was waiting for Sherlock when he got back. He saw the way Sam and Sherlock were easily conversing and thought maybe Sam would be good for him. Sherlock needed people who understood him and liked him, people other than John. 

On the other hand, John couldn't stop the bite of jealousy at their easy camaraderie. John liked being Sherlock's only friend, even if he was ashamed of that thought.

"Sherlock," he called. He had some damage control of his own to do.

Sherlock's eyes brightened when he noticed John, even as he cautiously approached. "John."

"Are you all tattooed up?"

"Yes," Sherlock grimaced. He glanced at Sam. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam smiled at them. "Dean calm down at all?"

"Dean is too busy kissing his angel to worry about Sherlock," John said with a grin. "I thought it best to leave them alone."

Sam's eyebrows shot high on his forehead. "Seriously? Finally? I was beginning to think they'd never get their heads out of their asses. I can't believe I missed it." He started to stride to the house. "I have to at least catch them at it. I'll talk to you later."

Still grinning, John stared up at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock gaped at him. "You're apologizing to me?"

"Yes." He took a step closer, and put his hand on Sherlock's chest. Touching Sherlock, even through fabric, was enough to get his heart racing. He'd wanted Sherlock for so long. "Just promise me that you mean this."

Sherlock put his hand over John's, staring at him. "I do, John. I do. I have. And I'm sorry I made you wait. I thought we had time, but we don't, do we? That was well hammered home to me today."

"No, there are no guarantees," John agreed. "It can all be gone in a blink."

"I'm still who I am, though," Sherlock warned. "I'll still get obsessed, and forget you exist, and still retain all my other habits that have kept people away from me, but have never seemed to keep you away. Why is that?"

"Because I love you, you wanker," John said.

"Ah," Sherlock said, pushing closer, wrapping his arms around John. "There is that." He leaned down as John raised himself on his toes, his own arms wrapping around Sherlock. This time, when Sherlock kissed him, John kissed back.

The End


End file.
